The Doctor's Doctor
by calicoskies4ever
Summary: Another what if story. What if House wasn’t faking brain cancer? AU, warning spoilers for Half Wit, Hilson slash, sex, and descriptions of child abuse. You should read “The Story of a Scar” even though this isn’t a sequel.
1. Chapter 1

This is another one of my "what if" stories. In this piece I will tackle the topic, "what if House wasn't faking brain cancer? " Obviously I'm gonna do everything differently than they did on the show. Alternate Universe, warning spoilers for _Half Wit_, House/Wilson slash, some sex, and occasional references to House's traumatic childhood. I'd recommend you read "The Story of a Scar" even though this isn't a sequel. Also please excuse my basic lack of knowledge about cancer, and don't write reviews telling me that I'm an idiot because I got something wrong. Frankly I don't really care if it's accurate because the show isn't always accurate, and has been known to get a thing or two wrong on occasion, but if you think it's small enough to be able to fix without having to change the whole story then please tell me.

Note: unfinished quotes are not typos, but rather sentences which either the character cannot finish, or was interrupted. Hence them ending with… or—. 

"When your body is coming apart at the seams  
And the whole things feeling low you're convincing yourself  
That there's nobody there, I know  
I know now you feel  
Like somebody has taken the wheels off your car  
When you had somewhere to go well its annoying  
Not going to get very far I know  
But somebody cares," Paul McCartney.

When House stumbled into the clinic—two hours late—and dragged me into an exam room after shouting, "Wilson, I need you," I knew it was not going to be good. What I didn't anticipate, what I couldn't have anticipated, however, was just how not good things actually were.

"Don't you think we should lock the door?" I tried to joke, but he didn't even crack a smile. "Alright, house, now that you've significantly scared the crap out of me, can you please tell me what is happening so I don't freak out anymore than I already am?"

"I need you to do an MRI on patient," was the only explanation he gave, refusing to say anything else. I was almost afraid to ask which patient, but I did. "It's me. I need you to do an MRI of my brain."

"I'm sure Cuddy's gonna be perfectly okay with me scanning random parts of random patients bodies based on their request for me to perform needless test, so shy don't you tell me what you're trying to do so I can skip the part where I scream and get right to the—okay you do know how it makes me feel when you look at me like that, don't you? House?" He was still sitting on the exam table, looking down at his feet. "What's wrong?" I asked, reaching for and stroking his palm. When he finally answered, House actually looked terrified, something that scared me half to death.

"I've been getting these headaches, but the word headache doesn't really describe what it feels like. I get this throbbing ache, like an atom bomb just went off inside my skull, and sometimes the pain is so bad I can't see and I've been having—I've been dropping things, falling down, having trouble writing."

"I'm guessing that you think—you think you have a, brain…you think you have cancer in your brain and you didn't tell me? How long have these symptoms been bothering you?" I felt as if someone had picked me up and punted me across the room. I wasn't completely sure where I was, what was happening, or how I got to be in that state. I was scared, confused, angry, worried, hurt, and upset all at the same time.

"The headaches started about two months ago, but I didn't think they were a big deal at first. I'm only talking to you because I nearly drove my bike into a tree this morning. The other stuff—maybe a week two weeks."

"You're a doctor, one of the best doctors on the planet. How do you not recognize the symptoms of a serious disease! You could have died! You could still die!" I started to stammer. "If it's too…if you—why the hell didn't you say anything sooner? What if you dicked around for two months and now it's too late for me to actually help you?"

"What if it's not? Is there any way you would be able to treat me, and not let anybody else know?" His voice went up slightly in timber slightly, and I got the distinct feeling he was begging. "Please?"

"Is this why we're having this conversation? You're not going to let me treat you unless I promise to keep this a secret?"

"It's not chlamydia, I can't just find somebody else or order pills for a fake patient—not that I've ever tried—you're an oncologist, and, if people knew you were taking care of me, they'd also know why. I trust you, sometimes, but I don't want anyone to know what's wrong."

"I'll see if I can keep this under wraps until we know more, but eventually Cuddy will need to know, and if I'm going to treat you, I'll also probably want to take some time off, because I don't think I'd be able to deal with much else if I was doing this, and I want to be able to give you my full attention."

"This has to be the lamest conversation I've ever had," House informed me as we walked down to the imaging department. "Thank God you're about to put me into a gigantic magnetic machine, and I won't be able to talk about this anymore." He lay down on the table, and then just as I was about to start things, he reached for my hand, and squeezed it. "I trust you, but I am, I'm scared." I touched his face as softly as I could, and kissed him before going into the other room.

"Just try and relax," I told him, but House wasn't saying much back. He lay there, staring straight up into the top of the tube. "House, I love you," I said over the speaker.

"Yeah," he muttered to himself, "but it's not gonna make me any better is it?" I've seen enough MRIs to be able to figure out what I'm seeing without the printout, not that I'd be skipping that step. Looking at the computer screen already knew what was going on. House pressed the "panic button" that turned the microphone back on and said, "How big is it?"

"Don't scare me like that! You know that thing sets off a loud alarm on my side, don't you? I thought you were about to have a heart attack or something! It looks like three millimeters, and based on the shape, I know what the biopsy's going to say. Hopefully we caught it early enough. I promise I'll take good care of you."

"Not letting you stick a gigantic needle into my brain, and I'm definitely not letting you remove a section of that brain."

"Sorry, but you don't get a choice about that one, Greg. I have to find out what stage this thing is at. I can't treat you unless I know exactly what's going on here. I know it sucks, but—please?"

"Jimmy," he sighed, sucking in his breath. When I let him out of the machine, House wrapped his arms around my shoulders and let out a very soft, very quick sob. It was over so fast I almost believed it was a hallucination. Everyone reacts the same way to hearing the news that they have cancer, even doctors, even doctors like him, but it still shocked me. I found him a room, checked him in and sat in the hospital bed, holding him, stroking his hair softly, and kissing his face. "You think maybe I could do the biopsy myself?"

"Well actually I was thinking I'd do it since you probably can't remove pieces of your own brain without causing considerable damage."

"Hmm, well that might not be a good thing. So, I guess I'd be slightly better of if you did it, but I still don't like the idea."

"I do these all the time. Besides, how mad would Cuddy be if I accidentally gave you a lobotomy?" Time went by but he didn't laugh, or talk. "Look, even if it is cancer, you finally get to nail Cameron, and yeah Cuddy's probably not gonna sleep with you, but I bet you could get a blow job out of it, and I'm going to be giving my complete and undivided attention to your sorry ass."

"You'd better cure me or I'll sue your ass! Then we'll see whose ass is more sorry."

"I can sedate you for the biopsy, but I don't think surgery's going to be an option when it comes to treatment. Even if it wasn't you, it's just not a good area for that sort of thing, which means that…" I sighed, not sure if I could put it into words. I was about to put my best friend through Hell. _You coward, _my brain taunted me. _You'll make him do it, but you won't say the word, will you?_

"Chemotherapy," he finished my sentence, looking helpless and lost, almost child-like. "Just get this damn thing over with, okay?" As well as I thought I understood House, I should have known better than to act like everything was normal in this situation. Cancer makes everybody freak out and as much as he pretends not to be, even House is human. I had forgotten this, and I was—basically—berating a patient. He was scared senseless and I wasn't even trying to make him feel better.

"I'm gonna take good care of you, promise. Everything is gonna be all right. And if you need anything, I'll get it. Okay?" As I spoke he started edging close to my body until I said the magic words, and then he collapsed into my arms, exhaustedly. "I'm sorry. I should have known better than to hurt you like that. You're okay, I've got you. We're just gonna sit here for a while, and then I'll get a little something to help you calm down for the biopsy, and once we figure things out better we can decide what to do next." He only let me hold him for about half an hour or so before he sat up, wiping his face as if nothing had happened.

"Before you do this thing, I'm either gonna need," and then he stopped, squeezing his eyes shut, clenching his teeth and grabbing his temples with his hands, and he started to scream.

"If you keep screaming that loudly someone's gonna hear it, come in here and see you, and then the next thing you know everyone in the hospital knows what's going on here. I'll only be gone a second and I'll come back with enough meds to get you through the night, okay?" Luckily no one seemed to notice me as I went about getting the things I'd need to do the biopsy, or even when I checked out pain meds for him. Once I got the pain meds in he was much more pleasant, but he still whined as I moved him from the regular room to a procedure room, and it wasn't until I was actually getting started that he wanted to talk to me.

"Wait," he moaned, reaching for my hand, grabbing it before I could put him. "What about my hair? You don't—I know how stupid it sounds, but I've never had much say in what happens to my body, which doubly sucks because it's _my _body. Never mind. Forget I said anything.

"I think I can manage to protect your hair for now. Later we might have to, you might have to shave your head later, if it starts falling out in odd clumps but you can decide what you wanna do it about it then."

House managed to squeak out a very quiet, "thank you," before he closed his eyes and succumbed to sleep. I wanted to keep promising him that everything was going to be all right, but frankly, I didn't believe it myself. After I finished the biopsy, and sent the sample to the lab, I went to see Cuddy, despite my promise.

"Look," I explained, when she gave me that doe in the headlights expression. "House is sort of freaking right now. He needs the rest of us to act like everything is normal. And you're gonna have to find somebody to take over for me. I can't be there for him the way he needs me and still take care of the rest of my patients."

"I won't be able to do anything today; it's already 5:00, but I can start looking for someone to "sub" for a while. How the hell am I supposed to act like everything is normal if I know that he's about to go through."

"He is not going to die. Everybody goes through this when they first find out. He's in denial, I'm in denial, and until we can get him past this, I'm not going to do anything to make him any more scared, or put him through any more pain than absolutely necessary."

"So what, you want me to go up there and start screaming at him because he ditched clinic duty today? I can't even begin to figure out how to talk to him. Tell me what I should do."

"Great, now you're freaking out too. I am very good at what I do, you wouldn't have hired me if I wasn't, and cancer is, well terrifying, painful, and he's going to get really sick, and when he does we're all going to have to try and support him. I can show you—well I have to ask him first, but assuming he says I can—the MRI. At least it's small, and I think we caught it early. Everything is going to be alright."

"Does anybody actually believe that?" she asked, touching my arm softly. "How are you feeling? You might be willing to take care of House, but who's supposed to take care of you?" she said when we got up to his room.

"If I wasn't so out of it I'd be so pissed right now," House informed me as we stopped inside. "Had to gossip didn't you?" Then to Cuddy he said, "So, you gonna make out with me or what? 'Cuz I shouldn't be waiting my energy making small talk unless it's gonna turn into something fun."

"Be nice to Wilson, or I'll fire you," Cuddy said, but then walked over, touched his face softly, turned around and walked back towards the door with tears in her eyes. "You…get better," she said hurriedly, and raced down the hall.

"You said she was gonna sleep with me." He paused for a moment, and then made an odd face, almost sincere. "Look, I know I'm usually not always that nice to you, and I just want to thank you for putting up with me, being nice, and taking care of me, and stuff."

"You'd do the same if I was sick, right?" He nodded. "You're welcome, of course. I love you, and I'll do anything for you. I think we should deal with this one day at a time, starting with tonight. When we get the biopsy result in the morning, we can come up with a plan then.

XXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Neither of us got much sleep that night, me because I was worried, and him because he was scared out of his mind and in more pain than he was used to. He cried a second time, burring his face in the front of my shirt, making a few soft sounds like a puppy dog, big, wet tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. At one point between the crying and the meds, he passed out and had some sort of a nightmare. He woke us both up when he screamed.

"I'm sorry," he shouted, pulling away from me. His eyes glanced all around the room, and he started to calm down. "I thought he was gonna…I thought _he_ was here—to hurt me." Having been told that when the word he was used like that Greg was referring to his abuse father, who—I had only learned about a year before—had molested, beaten, and berated the little boy Greg. The adult part was barely willing to help him deal with this, but it took time, and once in a while the man had what can only be described as flashbacks. For all intensive purposes, during these flashbacks, he was five, or six-years-old, maybe a little more, and he acted like it.

"You had a nightmare, I can't imagine how scary it must have been, considering what that rat bastard did to you, but I'm here now, and I'll keep the monsters away," I promised, stroking his back.

"Can you make me better? I don't mean, you know," he sighed, pulling back, not wanting to finish the sentence. "Can you make my—can you fix this? Make it go away?" I was too scared to lie to him, so I leaned my face over his and kissed right on his forehead.

"I will do everything I can for you, to try and save your life, make you better, and if we ever get to the point where I—where—if you ever. If it turns out that there's nothing I can do…I promise to let you go, if things ever get to that point." I couldn't' believe how much I was stammering, again, but I had just promised my best friend I would help him end his life. How was I supposed to react?

"All righty then, hook me up and pump that crap you call medicine into me. Besides, I'm not ready to die. Still too many "things" I wanna do that I haven't, and a few "things" I wouldn't mind doing again." He laughed, lifting the edge of his hospital gown up a little, showing off his long, slender leg. "Come on, you're the one always telling me to get some." I almost told him I wouldn't sleep with a patient, but technically that wasn't true, even if I never had sex with the woman. Plus I also understood that once he got started on the chemo, he wasn't going to feel strong, awake or anything good for a long time. Within a couple of days, he wasn't going to have sex with anybody, not me, not Cuddy, Cameron, Chase, even if I could get Stacy to come back and fall in love with him again, it just wasn't going to happen.

"I don't wanna hurt your or uh—you're sure this is what you wanna, oh-okay, that was Mmmm," my lips were suddenly engulfed by House's mouth as he kissed me over and over, pushing me down into the mattress, kissing every inch of my body, touching me, holding me, grinding his hard cock into my pelvis. Then he was inside of me, and I was hard too, and then I was cumming and he was cumming and then the two of us were lying in bed, my arms wrapped around his body protectively. House pressed his fuzzy face into my chest and his breath got hot and heavy against my nipples.

"Thanks," he said, and kissed me again. "I'm not actually feeling any better, but I do feel better, if that makes any sense."

"Of course it does. While you were sleeping, I called and canceled all my appointments for today, so I can be with you when we start your meds, and I was thinking," once again House finished my sentence for me.

"You wanna put in a central line? Don't look so shocked, big boy; I went to medical school too, you know. How come you wanna spend the whole day with me? Think I'm gonna have a bad reaction or something?"

"Well the good news is, I can get you started today, because I don't have to clear it with your health care provider, but the bad news is, you're gonna start to get sick right away, and because you are a doctor, you know what to expect." Then there was a knock on the door and when I got it, Cuddy was standing there again, holding his file.

"Well, what's the news?" House asked, staring down the front of her blouse, then smiling as huge as possible. "Other than the fact that you need to replace the top three or four buttons on that shirt, or do them up." He snickered.

"Stage 2b," she said, quietly, and then handed me the folder. I wanted to scream at her, again, especially because any idiot could see her with House's file and figure out what was happening. "I was wondering if maybe I could help you out somehow."

"Yeah, go away!" he moaned, clutching his head. "Look, you wanna help, keep my team as far away from here as possible, and try to see to it that nobody comes down with the Plague for a while."

"I think Greg meant to say, 'thanks for bringing this straight to us and making sure no one else got their hands on it, but we have everything we need right now,'" I told her, managing to keep myself from sounding rude. One of us needed to be nice to her, and as usual, it fell to me.

"What are you going to give him?" Cuddy asked.

"You can't tell her! I'm invoking my patient-doctor privilege thingy," he insisted, curling up close to me, almost pretending to be scared. "Why don't you go back to searching for a sperm donor? If you need a sample I'm ready to go whenever you ask, but what I don't need is your pity."

"Shut up or I'll announce certain private details of your," she paused, clearing her throat, or rather, pretending to clear her throat, "medical history, over the loud speaker for everyone to hear."

"Like I'm scared. You'd never have the guts to do it, not to mention the law suits you'd be opening yourself up for. Then, again putting you and the word opening in the same sentence is repetitive, and unnecessary."

"Well I could always tell them things that aren't privileged, details that anybody could learn, easily," she snapped back after about two or three minutes went by. Not exactly a quick come back, but funny none the less. However, when he smiled I knew House had a great response.

"What you're going to—excuse the expression—leak, the size of certain parts of my anatomy? Even if you lie and say it's tiny, you still have to explain when and how you saw this body party, and then everyone in the hospital will know we slept together, or that at the very least I've seen you naked."

"Okay, I'm leaving, but you are going to be on double clinic duty when you come back to work. You, not Cameron, not Chase, not Foreman, or some robot that looks and acts just like you, but the real, flesh and blood Dr. House, wiping running noses, and well you've been to the clinic," she let her voice trail off.

"Okay, I'm gonna jump in here. House stop acting like a five-year-old, and thank you for the file, Lisa, but I think I should probably start treating my patient because the sooner I get him better, the sooner he can come back to work. I am also sorry if anything my patient said might have offended you. Try to remember, he's really sick and a little out of it." House didn't actually say anything when she left, but he did smile upon realizing that he had—sort of—won the fight. He kept mostly to himself during breakfast, and while I sat, looking through his file, and he watched General Hospital.

"Need a hand?" he asked, turning the volume down on the TV set. "I know, I'm not supposed to see my own file, ohh scary, I might see that it says huge ass next to my name. Hmm, I thought Cuddy was gonna show up when I said, 'huge ass' since that's like her bat-signal."

"You can see it when I finished," I tried to say with a straight face, but ended up smiling and let out a small chuckle. "But, you do know that snipping with Cuddy is going to make it really difficult for her to feel sorry for you, which will decrease your chance of getting any."

"This is all part of my cunning plan. I act like I always do, and then I "accidentally" let her see me crying after a few days, but pretend that I wasn't, and then finally –well I can't really tell you, otherwise, it won't be a surprise. What are you looking at me like that for? This was your idea—" he paused, quickly realizing something. "That odd expression on your face has nothing to do with me trying to have sex with Cuddy, does it? Look, I'm fine; I don't need you to worry about me."

"I know, and believe me my life would be a heck of a lot easier if I didn't, but it's not something I can turn on and off." I sighed, waiting for a witty retort, but he didn't say a word. "I'm about ready to get your meds started, but first I think you should—" He interrupted me again.

"Yeah, yeah, blah, blah, blah boring doctor stuff, blah, blah, I solemnly swear not to sue. I'll sign the consent forms, but I don't need you to tell me the risks or side effects of chemotherapy. It's poison, I'm gonna feel like crap, throwing up, hair loss, crippling nausea, fatigue, etc, but then I'll get better. I'll be fine, and…" Greg looked away, as if slightly ashamed. "You're gonna stay with me, right?"

"I'll stay with you forever, if you'll let me," I promised, reaching for the phone, and then called in the orders for his medications. While I was on the phone, I saw House wipe his face like he might have been crying, but by the time I was finished, he was more interested in his TV program than anything I had to say. So I sat on the edge of the mattress, my arm around his shoulder, my face look strong and brave for him.

He didn't act any different than he would have on any other day, at least he didn't act differently until the meds came and I was connecting them to his IV. Then he made the same soft sound from before, sighed, grabbed my arm, and said, "How long before I start puking my guts out?"

"It's different with every patient. Some people don't feel bothered enough to take anything, and others don't stop vomiting, and wouldn't even if they—an hour or so. I wrote up an order for Zofran."

"I just, I wanted to—that is, I was thinking…I should maybe tell you, I uh, well I'm trying, what I'm trying to say is—thanks. I'm lucky to have you Jimmy," House told me, practically stuttering, and looking right into my eyes.

"I love you too," I told him, trying to smile, and holding him close, praying that he would get through this, get better, and maybe if I could fix this, I could fix everything, make him completely healthy, and okay.


	2. Chapter 2

I don't own Fox, The Simpsons or House. Don't even try to sue me, 'cuz I have no money.

"Angels with silver wings  
Shouldn't know suffering  
I wish I could take the pain for You  
If God has a master plan  
That only He understands  
I hope it's Your eyes He's seeing through," Depeche Mode.

The nausea hit House. It hit him hard and it hit him fast, coming on like a bolt of lightening. He vomited over and over, completely emptying himself out, but it didn't stop there. I think in his mind the dry heaving was more painful than puking, because it was more violent.

"Puking sucks, but it's over quickly, and as long as it doesn't get all over the floor, it's not so bad, but my body thinks it has to rid itself of something, and when nothing comes up it pushes harder and harder until," he tried to explain how he thought it worked once, and in a way he was right, but I wasn't about to get into an argument with him about it, especially since he was sick as a dog, exhausted and in more pain than I could possibly imagine. "Am I _that_ pathetic?" he asked, upon the realization that I wasn't going to tell him he was being obnoxious.

Of course, I was feeling exhausted as Hell, and so not fighting was (or so I kept telling myself) for my benefit as much as his. Two months had gone by since he first told me about he headaches. So far his hair hadn't fallen out, but not being bald seemed to be the only upside to this whole thing.

"Yes, but don't forget how shitty I've felt having to wait on you hand and foot ever since you got sick. I'm just as tired as you are, and I don't really feel like getting into an argument over how accurate your vomiting theories are."

"Okay," he said with a sigh. Enough time had gone by that Cuddy managed to find somebody to be a substitute doctor for me, but I still had to do clinic duty for a couple of hours, one or two afternoons a week, and I usually did this whenever House fell asleep, which he seemed to do a lot of these days. "Tell me something funny, and no more knock-knock jokes. Your knock-knock jokes suck."

"I had a woman come into the clinic yesterday with her kid, and the kid was like eight or nine, and he had taken a crayon and shoved it so far up his nose that only the tiniest end was sticking out of his nostril."

"They did that on The Simpsons. When Homer was a kid, he used to stick crayons up his nose, and one got stuck in his brain, but nobody noticed until he was 42 or something. When they took it out, he got smart, but nobody liked him anymore, and he got all depressed. So he got somebody to put another crayon in his brain so he could be stupid and happy. Tell the kid to watch TV not try and emulate it."

"I think you're right, life would be so much simpler if the most complicated thing we had to do was get out of bed and get dressed in the morning, but it wouldn't make you happy. It would be frustrating if you weren't able to do anything without help." I would have continued to lecture him except that I knew he got the point, and I'd been working really hard not to upset him, trying to protect and take care of him. I don't know if it was because he got sick, because I was spending too much time with him, or just because he was starting to trust me more, but recently he had been telling me about his childhood, the really scary stuff. The weird thing about this was that he needed to revert to an almost child-like state to do it. He didn't look any different and his voice never changed, but the way he spoke was, and his reaction to things were strange. The first time this happened was about a year ago, right after Stacy left the second time, but I'd only dealt with the kid a few times before he got sick, and now he seemed to trust me more. So, it started happening more and more. He wasn't crazy, the flashbacks were a coping mechinism. "Does your tummy hurt?" I asked, touching his hand softly, and he nodded. "You feel like you're gonna throw up? I'm gonna get some medicine to make it feel better." House's eyes opened even more widely than normal, two big, blue globes staring at me in terror.

"No. I don't—I don't wanna be alone, please? Can somebody else get it?" he asked, pulling my arms around his body, sort of pushing my hand around his stomach, rubbing in little circles. "My mom does this sometimes, when I'm sick and my stomach hurts."

"Yeah, I'll tell the nurse to come in here for a minute and she'll give you the medicine, and you'll start to feel better right away." I pressed the call button, told the nurse to get some Zofran, and met her at the door so I wouldn't have to worry about 1. anyone seeing us together, or 2. him freaking out over having a total stranger touch him.

"Thanks," he said in a voice so soft it almost wasn't audible. "How come you're always so nice to me?" he asked, once the medicine started to kick in. I've known Greg House for a long time, and I knew his history, but when he says stuff like that it still breaks my heart.

"I thought you said your mom takes care of you when you get sick? Am I doing this the right way? Do I move my hand like this, or up and down?" I wanted to tell him that I wasn't actually being that nice, but I was scared of saying the wrong thing.

"Dad says I'm not supposed get pampered when I get sick, because if being sick feels like a vacation then I'll wanna be sick all the time and I'll pretend I am so I can get more special treatment. She's not supposed to be really nice to me, but she does sometimes when he's at work or away. Mom says, 'don't worry about your father. He loves you. He just doesn't know how to show you,' but I know better. If what he does is love, I don't want anybody to love me ever," House explained. "He knows he's doing something bad too, 'cuz he says I'm sorry, and he cries sometimes and he gives me a beer or medicine to help me 'relax,' and make me feel a "better", but...I feel like I'm not really anywhere when he gives me stuff to drink, and it doesn't hurt as much in my heart, and in my head. Most of the time I can't think about much when he touches me and stuff." I wished more than ever that I had the power to travel back in time and rescue him, or murder John House. I thought _no wonder you're an addict_," and suddenly realized that he wasn't just hiding from the pain—I don't think he really could do that even if he took a whole bottle of Vicodin—he'd been popping pills since he was a toddler, and didn't know how to function without alcohol or drugs. It's a miracle he didn't O.D. at ten. I stroked his hair softly, still rubbing his tummy. House stared at the blank TV for almost an hour, and then looked back to my face. The grown up Greg was back. "The day you found me, that time I tried to," he paused, uncomfortable, almost afraid to say the words out loud. He rubbed the thin scar that runs along his wrist, absently. "It wasn't my first suicide attempt." I didn't mention the personality changes anymore because there wasn't much of a difference between the two Houses, and these days he was a little out of it, which is why he was going back and forth all the time.

"How old were you when you tried that the first time?" I asked, still rubbing his stomach. "You get to go home tomorrow, take some time to recover from this round of chemo. I ordered groceries online so we won't have to risk taking you out in the cold."

"Good," he responded only to the second part of my statement, actively avoiding the conversation about his suicide attempt(s) even though he was the one who brought it up. I only looked down to check on my hand, making sure it wouldn't move any lower, but then I noticed his fingers. Both hands were held open slightly, ten fingers spread out to tell me the words he couldn't say out loud.

"What did you—take? Nevermind, this is the wrong. I'm sorry, I don't know how to find the right words. You don't have to tell me anything unless you actually want to. Am I doing this right?" House nodded again. "I bet you were a smart kid, I know you were smart, but I was wondering how come you never got skipped, or moved into a gifted class."

"I was supposed to. When my parents registered me for kindergarten one of the teachers or somebody tested me to make sure I was ready. They said I was intelligent enough to be in the second or maybe even third grade, but my mom was worried I wouldn't be able to make friends with kids so much older than me, and my dad didn't think I could behave myself. Every time we moved, I went to a new school, and they all wanted me to go up at least a year, but I. I finally conviced my mother I could do it when I was eight, but my father was still, against it. Kindergarten and first grade were the worst, because none of the other kids could read, and so I'd have to sit in a room all day while they learned to color in pictures of different letters.

"I used to write as many words as I could think of that started with that letter instead of coloring, and they thought I was being a little brat, or a rebel, or something. Got sent home with a note, but I wadded it up and put it in my winter coat pocket. Then he found it and told me that getting in trouble proved I was right. 'You'd never make it in a the third grade. You'd act like the little pain in the ass that you are. You'd screw up and embarrass me.' I remember that night. because he yelled at me for what seemed like hours, but he didn't hit me, or spank me. Didn't even touch me—that came later, same night, amazingly."

"How did—I mean, does—did, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have interrupted you, but—your mom wasn't home, was she?" This time he shook his head, silently, and bit down on his lip for a second. "What did—I know I shouldn't ask, but, I don't think I can get a clear picture if I don't ask you this."

"He touched my genitals and made me touch his, and sometimes he put his mouth on mine or made me do the same. I know he thought about—you know—because he did it with his fingers, but I was lucky I guess. He never actually had the stones to try fucking me—talk about scarring your kids! Imagine what sort of damage that would do? I never told any of this stuff to anybody else."

"Not anybody? I don't think you should confront your father, but it might help if you could talk about some of this stuff with—" This time when he cut me off it was because he was scared, not pissed off, and couldn't handle what I was about to suggest, or didn't want to.

"You want me to tell my mother that I've been hiding the fact that her husband tried to have sex with me ever since I was five? If she knew, it would hurt her. She would just blame herself, and it's _not_ her fault."

"That is such bullshit! You're not scared of hurting her, you're terrified that she wont believe it, or worse she'll blame you, think you did something wrong. You're just as big a coward as I am." Then he hit me, weakly punching my jaw, angry with himself because he couldn't do it harder. "I deserved that, but it doesn't make me wrong, which is the real reason you hit me."

"You have no idea what I've been through, or how I feel!"

"Of course I don't. How could I possibly understand if you never talk to me?" I told myself to calm down noticing how his heart rate was starting to climb. "I'm sorry I yelled at you, and I definitely shouldn't be pushing you this hard, but I can't help you if you lie to me all the time."

"Shame, terror, anger, pain, terror, love, hate, fear of being happy, thinking you're dirty, a feeling that there must be something wrong with you, nausea, over-reacting to stupid stuff, self destructive behavior, a hatred of your own body, stress, pressure, nerves, bed-wetting, nosebleeds, anorexia, bulimia, cutting, masturbation at an early age, sex addiction, fear of sex, fear of being loved, conflicting feelings of love and hate towards the person who did it to you, and, well I could go on for days, Jimmy, and you still wouldn't understand. This isn't about empathy. It's about…everything." I wrapped my arms around his thin body, carefully holding him as closely and gently as possible.

"I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you," I whispered, rubbing and patting between his should blades the way I had been doing to his stomach. "You didn't deserve any of what he did, and I know I said it before, but you don't believe me, and I'm gonna keep telling you until it takes, okay?" I asked. House moved his head up and down, sobbing into my chest the way he always did, hiding from me. "I know it feels like you've done something wrong here, but if you don't cry when you have to, it builds up inside of you, like little germs, and over time there gets to be so much crap in your system that it just kills you."

"Your metaphors make my head hurt," he told me, lifting his slick, wet face from my shirt. I smiled to let him know that it was okay to do so. "You wanna know how to do it better? Plaque, and arteries, and heart attacks would have been slightly better, or uh—blowing air into a balloon until explodes or something, but yours sucked."

"So I suck. Big deal. You don't usually complain about that." I said, and he sort of chuckled. "Well, at least I didn't completely ruin everything. I'm sorry. I was just trying to help."

"Yeah, and as long as you're trying to help, whether you're actually doing me any good or not doesn't matter, does it? You don't wanna _help_ me, you wanna cure me! I'm one of those fixer-uppers you find at the junkyard, take home, repair and get bored with."

"I'll never get bored of you…I want us to be together forever, and yes, my ideal fantasy is the two of us living happily ever after—you can't tell me that _this_ is what you want, sure I wanna fix—I mean., I want to make you feel better, but I don't care how you act. Be a jerk. If that's who you are, that's who you are."

"You were—are—the only person who has ever liked me the way I am. You're the only one who gets me, takes care of me, loves me. You love me, Jimmy, at least I thought you did."

"Of course I love you. I will always love you, even if nothing ever changes, but do you want to be the angry, frustrated guy who hardly anyone likes—you'd still be as smart, and amazing, and talented," I would have continued by adding, sweet, funny, sexy, and a few other things but he cut me off.

"Oh shut up! I don't wanna be someone I'm not, and even if I did, I can't." I wanted to keep pushing him, try to get to some big revelation, but couldn't force myself to hurt him more than I already had. I wasn't trying to make him into someone he wasn't. I didn't want him to change. I wanted Greg to be happy, or as close to it as he could get. But I didn't say anything. I just lay there with House's head in my lap, his soft, tired face staring up at me, trusting and open. Neither of us had to say anything. We understood each other perfectly, and when he tugged on my sleeve, all wide-eyed and innocent looking, I couldn't help but feel like it was my fault he flashed back this time. "My stomach hurts, and my head too."

"I'll go get you some medicine," I promised, walking towards the door, opening it. When I did this, I nearly knocked Cameron—who was just about to step inside without knocking—over. I took one look at her, turned back to Greg, and sighed. I felt like I was going to cry.


	3. Chapter 3

I don't own Goldie Locks or the Twilight Zone either.

"Oh, why you look so sad?  
Tears are in your eyes,  
come on and come to me now.  
Don't be ashamed to cry.  
Let me see you through,  
cause I've seen the dark side too  
When the night falls on you,  
you don't know what to do,  
nothing you confess could make me love you less  
Ill stand by you," Chrissie Hynde.

After about ten minutes of everybody just standing (or in Greg's case sitting) in the same place staring at each other, Cameron finally made this soft sound like she might cry too, but didn't say anything.

"I take it you've got a case?" I said, trying to herd her towards the door, but she broke away, and ran to House's bedside. "Why are you here?" I asked more firmly this time.

"Cuddy wouldn't tell me what's going on. Nobody's saying anything to any of us. Forman doesn't really care, and Chase is just glad to have the time off, but I knew something was wrong. He doesn't just disappear without warning, not for two whole months. Just tell me what he did. I won't get mad; I'm not mad."

"And you shouldn't be! House hasn't done anything. He's just sick. I've got everything under control here, please. This isn't him hiding from everyone. He just doesn't want anybody to know."

"But if he's sick and you're the one whose treating him, then that means he has…oh God!" Cameron sobbed for about half a minute, then stopped, and looked at him angrily. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"I'm sorry," he told her, clenching both of his hands into fists, forcing himself to be strong until she left. "I didn't want to sit here while all of you guys told me how sorry you feel." She stood with her mouth hanging open, and then hugged him. "It's nothing. I'll be fine. Now go enjoy your vacation like a normal person." Cameron nodded, but didn't move. Her hand reached up to softly stroke House's cheek, gazing into his eyes and for a minute I was sure she was gonna kiss him. Then she stood up and left. "You'd better go get my meds before she comes back and I puke all over her—or you."

"I'm sorry about what happened before," I told him later. "I honestly didn't know that Cameron was going to come looking for us, or I would have kept her away from you."

"It's okay. She means well," House replied, looking up from his Gameboy just long enough to acknowledge my apology. Then I sat with him for a while, lying there, still getting used to how thin he had become. I kissed his hair and rubbed his stomach and held him. In the afternoon he got dressed and I drove us back to the apartment. While our commute hadn't changed at all, our schedule couldn't have been more different. On days when he was getting treatment, or staying overnight in the hospital, I stayed at his side only leaving the room to pee or get him stuff. We'd talk, or watch TV, and he complained about the food, the pain, the nausea, anything else he could think of. On days when we stayed home, he'd sleep in while I made breakfast, and sat with him, or cleaned up. Then he'd play Gameboy, or read, and I did the same while alternating between holding him and making sure he had everything he needed. Afternoons he slept, giving me the only alone time I ever got, and at bedtime I held House close, telling him, "I love you," over and over until we both fell asleep. I didn't mind being bossed around, in fact I liked it because—as long as he was still acting like a jerk—he was still the same, strong, amazing man, and he wasn't letting the disease get him down. When we stepped into the building the afternoon of our little run in with Cameron, House and I were having a spirited debate as to who we thought would be better in bed.

"She acts all innocent and sweet, but I think Cameron is hiding a dark side, like a passion for leather or an entire closet full of Catholic school uniforms," House informed me.

"I thought Chase was the one who went to Catholic school. Plus he's the biggest butt-kisser I have ever seen. He'd do anything to please whomever he was sleeping with at the time."

"You've put a lot of thought into this, haven't you?" he asked, dropping his overnight bag next to the door, and plopping himself up on the couch. "My stomach's feeling better, you're gonna cook dinner, right? And Chase has a nice ass, but Cameron's breasts are a lot bigger."

"No kidding," I giggled, walking towards the kitchen. I'd like to think that we came up with the idea at the same time, but I know it came to Greg first, because he was smiling to himself when I turned around and said, "What about the both of them together?"

"Now you're thinkin' with the right head." House nodded at me, and switched on the TV. "How come there's never anything good on TV. Oh, wait I spoke too soon. _Twilight Zone_, Talking Tina. I like this one, the bastard father actually gets what he deserves." He became quiet, and I heard the TV go on, and I decided to make cheese burgers for us, since it was fast and something I knew he liked. Dinner went well and he managed to keep it down, and I was pretty sure he liked it despite the fact that he complained about my not letting him have a beer. "Tell me a story or something," he asked afterwards, lying down on the couch with his head on a pillow in my lap.

"What, like Goldie Locks and the Three Bears?" I asked, knowing what he really meant, but also wanting to see the way he smiled when I say something stupid. "I haven't been to work for a couple of days, I'm spending all my time with you, sorry."

"It's okay, I was thinking of ordering a—movie from paper view. So, will you be joining me, or is this gonna be a solo effort," he asked, sitting up and leaning in to kiss me.

"Uh-huh, but not on the couch, and definitely not with the TV on. If you can't give me your full attention, then I am not going to waste my time."

"You're not nearly interesting enough to deserve my total attention," he snipped, pulling at my shirt, like he had forgotten how to work buttons. "But I like the bed better, more room, more comfy."

"Fine, go ahead and tell me how stupid I am, but no TV during sex, deal?" I asked, helping him up and moving towards his room, gently pushing him down onto the mattress. "If you want me to stop, just say—whatever you think will work."

"I think I can trust you to stop if I say 'stop.'" His fingers squeezed mine tightly, watching my face, and said, "Yeah, I can trust you. You're okay, and I can trust you." He smiled, and went back to kissing me. When we were finished, House snuggled close to me, pressing his head to my shoulder, and closed his eyes. "I am completely exhausted."

"Then, you should try and get some sleep. I'll watch out for monsters. Sorry, I shouldn't have said monsters. You know what I meant. I'll watch over you, okay?" He nodded; closing his eyes again, and fell asleep in my arms. "You're okay. Everything is gonna be okay, I promise. I love you. Please be okay, please," I begged, whispering softly enough to keep from waking him up. And then as if that day hadn't been difficult enough the phone rang. I grabbed it fast enough to keep him asleep, and as soon as I answered I wanted to hang up. "Hello?"

"Greg? Sweetie? It's me." The voice on the other end was crying hysterically, and I had no idea what to say to her. Blythe House was calling her son, and seemed more upset than I'd ever seen her. "Who is this?"

"It's James, Wilson. Greg's sleeping right now, but I would be more than happy to take a message for him, if you like. Is everything all right? I mean, uh, you don't exactly sound like you're doing very well, and I guess I'm just concerned about upsetting him right now, in the middle of everything."

"Greg's father died this morning. He committed suicide, and in the note he, John confessed to having—please, I need to speak to my son. Please, it's very important," she begged, and I gently kissed his forehead. House snapped awake.

"Who the Hell calls at this time of the night?" he asked, upon figuring out that he wasn't in danger, or under attack, or anything. My face gave me away completely. "Jimmy? Who is on the phone?"

"It's your mother, and I think you'd better speak to her. She says that your father killed himself this morning, and he left a suicide note about…how he hurt you. She really wants to talk."

"You're making that up, and it's not even a little bit funny. What, what's really going on? Is—he—he's really dead?" House grabbed the phone out of my hand. "Mom? I—well yeah, I was a—you're not mad at me? Well I'm not doing so great right now. I'm sort of sick but Wilson's taking good care of me. Yeah—it's not that far along, and it's not big. No, I think I can make it for the funeral—well I never of course I wanna spend some time with you but—you—okay, lunch tomorrow—Yeah, I'm still in the same place—I'll see you tomorrow, today at 12:00ish. And Mom, I love you. Yeah, I'm fine, I just—okay, see you tomorrow." When he hung up, Greg just sat staring off into the distance, a stunned look on his face.

"Do you wanna talk about this?" I asked, but he shook his head. "Is it okay if I give you my hand? Do you wanna squeeze it?" This time he nodded, barely touching my fingers. "Are you okay? I'm sorry, that's gotta be the stupidest thing I have ever said."

"I am, actually. I don't know if it's just shock, but I sort of feel good. See, told ya I'm going to Hell. My father died and I'm happy about it. What the fuck is wrong with me?" House had still been looking straight forward, and when he turned to face me, he didn't look any different than if a cafeteria worker had just told him they ran out of potato chips.

"I don't think that's necessarily true, especially when you consider what he did to you. People don't cry at the end of _Frankenstein_ when the guy dies," I tried to tell him, regardless of how stupid it sounded.

"My fath—I can't say that word in connection with him! It wouldn't bother me if I felt glad that he finally can't hurt me anymore, or if I was mad or sad or something, but I don't feel anything. I'm not sure, maybe it hasn't registered yet."

"Probably not. With news like this, people have all sorts of reactions. You know what I'm talking about. Don't try to force yourself to feel anything, but even if you never feel bad about it, that doesn't mean there's something wrong with you."

"I think I'm gonna throw up," he said, but never actually did. We stayed up for most of the night, talking, and I did everything I could think of to try and comfort him, help him get in touch with his feelings, but Greg still seemed to be in a state of shock and couldn't really feel anything. "I think it's better this way," he told me around 8:00, yawning. "Means I was right when I told myself I didn't give a crap about him. If I go to sleep, you're gonna keep an eye on me, right?"

"Of course," I explained, kissed his hair, watched him sleep for a while, and cried to myself again. I let him sleep until 11:15, and woke him up, gently, with another kiss. House smiled at me and then groaned. "Your pills are sitting out on the table. I had to wake you up so I could get started on lunch."

When Blythe arrived, the first thing she did was hug her son, holding his body for way too long, and yet he didn't seem to mind. The two sat down on the couch, each squeezing the other one's hand, although to tell the truth I'm not sure who was holding on more tightly.

"I am so sorry, Sweetie," were the first words spoken. "Can you ever forgive me?" Momma House asked, gently touching the side of his face, looking deeply into his eyes.

"I never blamed you, Mom. I just, as an adult I had a hard time. It wasn't like the two of us could spend time alone together and so even though I was only avoiding him, we never got to see each other or even talk on the phone."

"Are you okay, otherwise?" she asked, her hand pressing right up against House's cheek. "I know you explained some of what is going on last night but..." I brought them each a plate of food, but then went to sit in the kitchen so they could speak privately, keeping an eye on them from a distance, just in case, but he didn't seem to need me.

"Well, like I said, it is cancer, but Dr. Wilson's really good at what he does, so I am gonna be sick for a while, but—why does everybody keep hugging me? I didn't mean you have to stop, but I just don't see why people think it's gonna help the disease."

"I didn't, I'm not hugging you because you're sick and I think it's going to make you better. I wanted to try and make my little boy feel better. I am so sorry I wasn't able to help you before now. This was not your fault, and I don't want you to think that any of what happened was because of anything you did."

"I um, all of—I guess this hasn't really, completely sunk in yet. I don't think I believe it yet. How did it happen, I mean, what did—Dad, do?" The word dad sounded like it was extremely painful for him to say, at least in reference to his father. Even Greg's mom seemed to pick up on it and she hugged him again, patting her son on the back, whispering something in his ear. I assume she said something along the lines of, "I love you," but there was no way to be sure.

"Your father shot himself, in the head," she explained and I saw them both wince. "I don't think you should see the letter. It was addressed to you, but I think the only reason he wrote it was to torture you, and I'm not going to help with that."

"Good ol' Dad, still trying to screw with me, even now. I don't want to see it. Can we, maybe, talk about something else? I think things might go better if we don't keep mentioning it; this stuff sucks."

"When you were a very little boy, starting when you were two or three-years-old, right up until about your fifth birthday, you used to sit in the kitchen with me all afternoon, help me cook dinner, read, and talk to me. You were so smart, and sweet and happy, and we learned so much from each other."

"I'm sorry if I ever accidentally set our dinner on fire or something. I guess I didn't retain much of that cooking stuff. These days I can only make TV dinners and toast, but maybe you could show me some stuff, if I ever feel like eating again."

"You always had a very sensitive stomach. I wonder if I might try something. Is it okay if I touch you there?" she asked, and started to rub his belly very softly and gently. "Does this help, at all?"

"Yeah, that feels good. I don't know if I've felt this good for a while. I um, actually, I must be—Mom," he sobbed, and then they both started to cry together. "Jimmy, you might as well stop hiding in the kitchen and come in here and sit with us," he called out to me and I did as he said.

All three of us sat on the couch together, just holding House's hand while we all cried and after a while, he pulled himself up, and reached for me, cuddling close and looking up into my eyes, still not saying much of anything.

"Is there anything I can get you?" I asked, but he just clung to me, rocking back and forth very slowly, very carefully. "Anything I can do or get for you?" I asked his mom and she shook her head. "He's going to be all right. I'm gonna make him better, I promise." She nodded and looked like she was about to start talking, but she stopped and then looked over at me in shock. "If you need to talk or anything, I'm a very good listener." 

"No! You're my—sorry, I guess I'm just a little, I guess I'm more scared than I originally thought. You can talk to my mom if she wants to. This sucks. What are we doing? I mean, what happens next?" I wanted to answer even though I knew the question wasn't directed at me. I knew what he wanted—needed—to hear, and as much as I wanted them to get closer I wasn't sure she could do it right.

"We'll just have to figure everything out as we move along, when we get there. I would like to keep spending time with you, that is, if this sounds like something you would be okay with too."

"I always liked you, he was the one I didn't wanna see or have to spend time with. I hated not being able to see or talk you, but I couldn't get near —I couldn't get near da—I couldn't get near him. I am sorry I never told you and I wish we could have had a chance to be close."

"We can still try, if you're okay with that, Greg. Think you could eat a little something? This lunch James made looks really yummy." She was extremely sweet and gentle with him, almost perfect for this situation. "You need to sleep, don't you?" she asked, softly, and helped me put him back to bed. Then, the two of us sat in the kitchen together.

"I can't even imagine what you must be going through right now, but I do wanna say, what you're doing for your son is just incredible. I can see how much you love him, what a good mother you are, but I think there might be a reason you're doing this, not just for him but so you won't have to think about and deal with your other problem."

"The only problem I have is that I didn't do everything I could to protect my little boy from being attacked, beaten, and—now my son needs me and I'm going to be here for him. This time I am doing everything right."


	4. Chapter 4

"No I would not give you false hope,  
on this strange and mournful day,  
but the mother and child reu-nion  
is only a motion away. Oh, little darling of mine.  
I can't for the life of me,

remember a sadder day.  
I know they say let it be,  
but it just don't work out that way," Paul Simon

************************************

**Chapter Four**

"You are doing something wonderful here," I told House's mom as we sat in the kitchen, talking while he slept in the next room. "But if you—Greg is going through something extremely difficult, and he's going to need all the love and support we can give him. I'm concerned though, because you're focusing on his health problem so you can avoid dealing with your husband's…"

"He wasn't going to be my husband for more than a week longer. We were in the middle of getting divorced, and I didn't tell Greg because I didn't think he needed to hear all of this right now. I thought it would upset him." She sighed, and I placed my hand on hers, turning to check the doorway to make sure House wasn't about to walk in on us.

"I still love all of my ex-wives, even the ones I haven't spoken to in years. Of course, if it were up to me, I might not; I'd probably still be married to all of them—somehow. The point I was trying to make is that a divorce doesn't erase five or ten or twenty or forty years of marriage. You two stayed together for a reason, because you loved each other."

"John never loved anyone but himself. He wasn't capable of it." Her voice dropped suddenly. I knew I had hit a tender spot and I stopped, wondering if maybe I was stretching myself too thin. Just taking care of Greg under normal circumstances was hard enough, and if she said she was feeling okay, who was I to challenge her?

"My problem is that I wanna help everybody, and I do mean everybody. He makes fun of me because of it, but I love him, and I'm willing to do anything to help him, to make him feel happy, because he deserves it."

"Yes he does. Maybe he can be happy now because he has both of us." She did seem hopeful, but at the same time I could hear both concern and sadness in her voice. "You can make him better, right? You can make him healthy?" she asked, reaching for my hand, giving it a very soft pat.

"I think so. I mean, I believe so. Yes, I can. I will make him better, at least the parts of him I can fix. The medication is going to make him really tired, and nauseous, and the pain is awful, but we were about as lucky as you can get with cancer."

"Yeah, might as well be dancing on the ceiling. I'm pretty damn lucky, aren't I, Jimmy? Sorry Mom, but I hate it when he does that. Wilson's one of those guys who can't stop spewing out sunshine. Just talking to the guy is enough to give you cavities. Which is one of the reasons I like him. Even if he is terminally pathetic." While we were talking House had woken up and stumbled into the kitchen, and was now sitting down in-between his mom and me. "Plus he doesn't completely suck at—other things. What? You're the one who told me to be myself."

"I didn't say to be a jerk. Okay, I did, but fine, I don't care. Right now I'm worried about you. Despite the nasty remarks and sex jokes you're not acting like yourself," I told him, a little sad and a little angry.

"Well, between the toxic sludge you call medicine, and the fact that you keep trying to force me to talk about what happened when I was a kid and now this, you can't exactly blame me. So what if I'm mopey? It could always be worse. At least I'm not wearing a dress and stabbing gorgeous ladies while they shower."

"Like you could ever get near a gorgeous woman, let alone a gorgeous, naked woman. You're not my first patient, and your behavior isn't normal. I'm a little worried that you're either messing with me, or…"

"Or the tough ass-hole thing was—is—an act to cover up my pathetic insecurities stemming from being—nevermind. I'm not getting into this with you, Wilson. How's _that_ for a familiar phrase?"

"Greg, if you feel uncomfortable talking around me, I can let the two of you have some time to yourselves," Blythe offered, but he grabbed her hand and squeezed it, looking into her eyes.

"I'm pretty sure we can all agree I haven't exactly grown up to become a," he stopped himself from swearing, and thought carefully. "Model citizen or anything. I'm grumpy, disagreeable, and obnoxious, but I'm smart and I can fix problems when everybody else has given up. Maybe I don't need to be fixed." House's mom grabbed her son, hugging him tightly, squeezing and patting his back.

"Please don't say that," she said sweetly. "You might be scared or upset, and I'm sorry you had to go through all of this alone for so long, but Dr. Wilson and I are here now, and we want you to feel good. We want you to be happy." I could almost hear the words forming in Greg's mind, _happiness is overrated. _"Greg was always stubborn. He gets it from me."

"It could be worse. I could have ended up like—sorry I am a jerk." Again he stopped himself from behaving too rudely in front of his mom. "You can't change what happened in the past, and I'm not nearly as messed up as people think. What do you want me to do just keep crying until I feel better?"

"This isn't easy for anyone, but if you just act like it never happened you won't…I don't know how to fix this, except to keep on reminding you how much I love you, and that you deserve it. I love you, House, and I always will."

"Aww, Jimmy, how sweet." Those soft blue pools got huge. "Why didn't she react to that?" he asked, slightly nervous all of the sudden. "You just hear Wilson say he loves me and you didn't so much as blink. Did he tell you that we're, together?" Greg asked his mother.

"Nobody had to tell me anything. I'm not blind. You and James have been very close friends for a long time, and I don't think you've come home, or spent time with us alone since you two met each other. I knew the first time I met him. It doesn't bother me," she explained. "Nothing about you bothers me. You're my child and I will always love you, always."

"Even if I am a total fuck-up. Sorry, this isn't easy for me, and to be perfectly honest, I'm not so sure I want anything to change. My life might not be great and…" He stopped, and I gave the guy a look to tell him I wasn't buying it. "Okay so I'm covering. What the hell—sorry, Mom—am I supposed to do?"

"I don't know," I admitted, and he pulled himself away from his mother's hug and into my arms instead, but not for very long. "Are you telling me that you don't care if you're ever happy? There's nothing you want, nothing at all?" He shook his head.

"How do I…is it gonna be? Well of course it's not gonna be easy, but," he bit his lip. This is stupid. I don't wanna talk about it. Did you tell her about the other thing?" There was a pause and I didn't know what to say. "The flashbacks," he reminded me, realizing too late that I had not.

"I did some work at the base hospital a few years back. I know how flashbacks work. I suppose it doesn't surprise me that much, considering what he did to you when you were a little boy." Even though it didn't seem to be a big surprise, she was still clearly upset at hearing about this particular symptom.

"I thought he told you, or else I wouldn't have brought it up. They aren't really that bad. I think, that is, my mind makes me feel like I'm a kid again, and all the fear, and pain, and all the other crappy things come back, and I don't act like me. Well I act like myself, but I'm myself as a kid." House muttered something to himself. "I didn't want to talk about this, I just…Wilson said I'd feel better if I told you, but most of the stuff he says is pretty stupid so I usually—actually—well this is just great."

"What's the matter?" I asked, thinking something terrible must have been going on for him to stop in the middle of his sentence and stare off into space like he was doing. Of course I didn't realize he might be steaming mad until after I freaked out.

"You were right," House admitted, unhappily, like he was upset about feeling good. "Well you were sort of right. I don't feel better, but I guess it is a little bit less bad now because I feel like—you got this right? You know what I am trying to say, right? Can I go play Gameboy or something?"

"I would really like to talk to you for a little while longer, if you think you can do that for me," his mother asked, very carefully. Watching the two of them together for, basically the first time in his adult life, I could see that she knew how to deal with her son really well. Blythe knew how to talk to him without making him feel bad, upsetting him, or getting insulted in the processes. She was kind, but not patronizing, tough without being cruel, and he listened to her. "Is there anything I can do for you? Either of you?"

"I dunno, I guess it wouldn't kill me to talk a little more. I don't really know what I should say, is all. I feel like I could either keep hiding what happened, tell you that he molested me, but not give any more details, or tell you everything, which you definitely don't want." At this point, House stood up and started to pace back and forth. I don't think he was trying to make her worry when he did this, in fact I know he was only thinking about trying to make his leg or his head hurt less, and walking helped.

"You know it doesn't have to be all or nothing, Greg. I want you to tell me what was done to you, without getting too graphic. Your father wasn't at all specific in the part of the note that was left for you, and he said nothing at all in my section. When did he…" She paused, as if unsure what she wanted to know.

"You wee out of town the first time it happened, at Aunt Sarah's, I think. I remember I had started Kindergarten right before, and they sent me home with a note pined to my shirt 'cuz I had "forgotten" to bring lunch or money for a school lunch three days in a row. I didn't forget, and neither did he. The not feeding me was a punishment," before he could finish, Blythe stood up, ran across the room and hugged him yet again. "And I got caught taking food out of other kid's bags, but I ate too much and it made me sick. It was weird, though. He didn't get mad. He acted nice and he gave me cookies, and ice cream, and a soda. I ate a ton and there was chocolate and stuff all over my face and arms and hands and he—" House's voice cracked slightly and I saw him morph into the younger version of himself. She saw it too. "I was filthy and needed a bath, he said, and then when we got into the bathroom he said he had to help me. Then, he got in the tub with me, and then he. That's pretty much how it started. He told me nobody would believe me over him. I was a screw up and he was—good."

"You are _not_ a screw up, and you never were. You did not deserve that. Your father's the one who did something wrong, not you. He should have fed you, and as for the other thing, nobody has the right to touch you like that, without your permission, ever," she explained, hugging him as gently as she possibly could. "Is this okay?"

"You guys, I have an idea if you can bear with me for just a second," I started to explain Both House and his mother looked over at me, and—despite the state he was in—Greg seemed to like me. He even managed a quick smiled. "You know you're safe here, don't you? And your mother and I are going to protect you and be in your life from now on, okay? No one is ever going to hurt you again, isn't that right?" I asked her.

"Yes, of course it is," Blythe promised her son. "We're not going to let anybody hurt you, not ever again, I promise." He nodded, and hugged his mother again, and then he hugged me too. Then, he sort of massaged his temples and sighed.

"Do you think it'll work?" he asked, starting to pace again, and biting down on his lip. "Damnit! My head hurts like all fuc-hell, and I still think I'm gonna puke. I don't suppose you're planning to help _me _roll joints are ya' Jimmy?" he asked, with a sneaky little smile. Up until now his mother had been okay with anything and everything he said, but I wasn't sure how she'd feel about him talking about street drugs. Yet, somehow, even this didn't really seem to bother her.

"He's sick, just like you said. Until Greg is healthy again, you do whatever it takes to make him feel comfortable. I know you won't let anything really horrible happen, but be careful, both of you." We spent a long time talking that afternoon and while House didn't stop sniping, complaining, and making inappropriate comments, he did seem marginally better. Before she left, Blythe made plans to have dinner with us a few days later. Then, she had to bring up a very difficult subject. "I understand if you don't want to come to the funeral. If I had a choice I don't think I'd go myself."

"No, mom you have, um—maybe we can go together. This sucks, but if we don't get the closure and—Jesus, Jimmy! How do you say this shit to me on a daily basis? I'm still, messed up, not sure I'll really believe that he's gone until I can see them pouring dirt over the bastard's casket. God that must sound awful."

"Not as bad as you think," his mother replied, giving him another pat on the back. "I love you so much, Greg," she told him. After she was gone, House smiled, sat on his couch, his left leg shaking a little, and looked up at me longingly.

"You still want me to go score you some pot, don't you?" I asked, sitting at his side and giving his hand a very gently tongue flicking. He moaned softly, lifted his hips slightly, and nodded his head. "I guess it wouldn't kill you, would it?"

"No, the pot is definitely not going to kill me. The cancer on the other hand—oh don't give me the look, I was kidding. You're pathetic. I don't suppose you'd wanna join me in lighting up, would you?" he asked and even though I thought I shouldn't, I said, okay, and went to get us some weed.


	5. Chapter 5

"All around the room your things are placed  
And next to you he fills the space  
And so it seems your saving grace is only saving face  
The pictures of the two of you on holiday, on honeymoon  
You thought that he was wanting you,  
But he was only wanting you to  
Let him off the hook," Barenaked Ladies

********************************

**Chapter Five**

House was sitting on the sofa, with the Gameboy in his hands, staring at the front door when I got back. He didn't try to pretend like he wasn't watching for me, waiting for me, maybe even a little worried, but once he saw that I was okay, he started acting like himself again.

"What the Hell took you so long?" he asked, popping up off the couch and scrambling to the door. He only smiled slightly when I handed him the little baggie, and then the two of us sat at the table together. "Smells good. You must really know what you're doing. Maybe this whole cancer business isn't all bad."

"And if I'm luck you're gonna be just a little bit more pleasant when you're stoned off your ass," I snipped, trying to sound like I wasn't scared to death of losing him, trying to hide how much it hurt me to see him hurting like this. "I'm not sure if I should join it. What happens if you have a flashback and I'm too out of it to be of any help?"

"More dope for me then," he replied, smiling for real this time, and then placing his hand on my shoulder. "Don't freak out, okay? This is not nearly as bad as you think it is. In fact it's gonna be awesome. We've still got those cookies you made the other day right? Cuz the last thing you wanna do is bake when you're…baked. So, do I hafta share this baby or what?" He asked, lighting a fairly fat looking joint.

Even though I was thinking it would be better if one of us remained sober, I smiled at him and said, "Yeah you do," before taking a small drag and handing it back to him. "I think I got ripped off. This stuff's twice as much as I had to pay in college."

"The times they are a changing," House chuckled. He actually fucking chuckled, and then winked at me. "I think I forgot how—I have no idea what I was going to say. I was in the middle of a sentence, and my thoughts just sort of went." He made a loud sound, blowing air over his lips and then started to laugh again. Looking at him I suddenly realized just how huge his eyes were.

So I said, "you have really big eyes," which made us both laugh, although I wasn't nearly as out of it as he was. "I think I'm starting to feel something," I told him. House nodded silently, but kept on staring at me, refusing to break eye contact. "You're kind of freaking me. I feel like you're staring into my soul. Don't laugh. Don't laugh or I'm gonna kill you."

"And I thought _I _was stoned," he snapped. There was still a big smile on his face, but he wasn't laughing, or talking nearly as stupidly as I was. "You don't say as much stupid stuff when you don't talk as much as you were saying you were talking about." Then he paused, and looked away. "See." House started to massage his leg with both hands. "It doesn't hurt as much as usual, but I still, and my stomach is starting to feel normal again, if you think you can make me food."

"I think you wanted to ask if I could make some food for you, because you just asked me to make you into food," I said, stupidly, knowing how dumb it sounded, knowing that it wasn't funny, but testing to see how he was doing. It did make him laugh, which either means it wasn't as stupid as I thought or it was even more stupid than I realized. "What do you want?"

"Pizza, or peanut butter, or something easy, so you don't have to worry about burning the place down. You can't even form a coherent sentence." Most of the night we sat on the sofa, giggling and playing video games, but we didn't have any breakthroughs, and the night wasn't all that interesting. We did stay up late, kissing and cuddling. House fell asleep in my arms, naked and smiling, but he woke up again, he looked at me strangely before reaching into the dresser next to his bed and pulling his pajamas on.

"Are you okay? I mean, of course you're not okay, but are you at least doing better now than you were doing before? I dunno, I guess I'm a little worried about you because the pot didn't seem to have much of an effect on you, except that you ate."

"Well it's not Prozac, and my father did just die, ya' know, but I did feel it, but I didn't want you to know. I was trying to hide the fact that I was so out of it I couldn't even think."

"You don't want me to see you stoned? Like we didn't use to do this back when we were both in college? Well, I was in college, but you were actually in med school. The point is I've already seen you stoned, House. Technically I see it every day."

"Doesn't mean I like it, or that I can stand to have you see me completely out of control," he explained. "You're an idiot by the way. You don't talk stupidly, not that stupidly at least, when you smoke pot. As you pointed out, I've seen it before. You were trying to get me to open up by pretending to be more out of it then you really were."

"You need to talk about what's going on here. You need to talk to me, or somebody else, but you have to tell someone what you're feeling. You just lost a parent, and I don't mean in the supermarket."

"There are a lot of words I can think of to use to describe the man, but I don't think that "parent" will ever be one of them, neither is father, dad, daddy or anything else that resemble those words. Now stop talking. I'm exhausted and I think I need my sleep right now."

"Do you have any idea just how frustrating it is trying to talk to you? And I wasn't faking. I was out of it, but not as out of it as I acted. I thought you'd be more willing to talk if I seemed like I wouldn't remember."

"Then you're an idiot and an ass. Stupid for thinking I might actually fall for your idiotic plan and an ass because you tried to trick me—a guy who you know has trust issues—into trusting you when I shouldn't. I'm fine! Yes, he got my mother pregnant and he was in the same building as I was throughout most of my childhood, but I also had a lot of light switches and bed sheets and teachers, doesn't mean I have to feel anything for him, especially now that he's dead."

"Which is exactly what I'm worried about. You wanted to prove you were stronger than he was, survive just long enough to see him go. And now that he's dead, you have nothing to prove."

"Would you shut up? I already told you I don't want to die, and this doesn't change that. It doesn't change anything, except maybe it makes me feel slightly less stressed out. If you wanna lower it some more you have two choices. Either give me a Valium or let me sleep."

"All I'm trying to do is figure out if this is having an effect on you, because I can't tell from any of the conversations we've had today. Even though he treated you badly it doesn't mean that you're never going to feel anything."

"Of course I feel something. I'm glad! I don't just feel better because I don't have to worry anymore, but I was happy to hear the news. The only thing that would have been nicer is if he had screwed it up some how and turned himself into a vegetable. If he was suffering, in complete agony for days, maybe even a week or two, I might have even laughed about it. Can I go to sleep now and skip the lecture?"

"I'm not going to lecture you, and I'm not gonna tell you how evil you are, because you're not. I wouldn't recommend that you get up and give a speech at the funeral, but." I'm not sure what I would have said if House hadn't interrupted me, but he did, so it doesn't matter.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. I've moved on. He doesn't control my life anymore. Now either shut up and "sleep" with me again or shut up and actually sleep with me." House sighed, rolled from his back, onto his left side and let his arm drop over my chest.

"I love you, House," I whispered, softly running my fingers through his hair, not really sure how to make any of this better.

House smiled at me once more and said, "Good night, Wilson," and closed his eyes. Then, just before he fell asleep, he told me, "and as far as the other thing goes…I love you too, Jimmy."


	6. Chapter 6

"If you're lost you can look--and you will find me  
time after time  
if you fall I will catch you--I'll be waiting  
time after time," Cyndi Lauper

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The morning of his father's funeral, House woke up early, took his morning meds, and started to get dressed. When I got out of bed, an hour before the alarm was supposed to go off, he was sitting on a chair, his shirttails untucked, staring down at the obviously too big pants. As I got closer it all looked big, probably because he almost never wears the suit and he had been losing some weight.

"I'd offer to let you wear mine, but they'd probably be about four inches too short," I offered, trying to smile, and knowing that it wasn't really funny. "Feel free to use that information to make a joke."

"I'm not sure which one of us is more pathetic, me or you. I guess this is what I get for eating your crappy cooking every day. How weird would I look in jeans? Forget I said anything, it was a stupid idea." I walked over to his side, placing my arms around his shoulder. "You win."

"At least my clothes fit," I finally managed to come up with. He smiled a little, reaching to meet my embrace. "What if you tie the belt really tight?" I suggested. "But lose the tie, you look like a dork."

"Takes one to know one! God, what am I, five?" he asked, looking away momentarily. "What do I say well people start telling me how sorry they are for my _loss_? Why do people even say stuff like that? Like your feeling sorry for me is going to make my pain any less."

"Are these people you're going to be having regular contact with from now on or random relatives you'll never actually have to talk to? Yeah that's what I thought. Then I think you should lie. Pretend he was a halfway decent human being. If anyone ever finds out, you can apologize when you see them again."

"Yeah, okay," House, said nodding. Then he stood up, and went back into the other part of the hotel room. "Where is my belt? I thought I brought a black on, but the only belt in here is brown. What kind of an idiot doesn't bring a black belt to wear with a black suit?" He had the belt slung over his shoulders, but Greg didn't notice.

"Are you stoned?" He didn't respond, didn't say anything. One of the few things I' discovered, spending all my time with Greg was that there are only a few things he feels ashamed of, and only when he's around me.

"I just took a couple of extra, a couple extra pills, so I could be strong. Figure I can keep my mouth shut for a few hours before they start to wear off. Then I take more."

"Please tell me I don't need to—do I have to call 911? Do you need to get your stomach pumped?" I was trying really hard not to get mad at him, trying to keep from yelling, but I was scared, and this was a big deal, and he didn't seem to understand.

"No, no. I didn't take as much as you think. Just enough to make me numb, but without making me puke or anything. If I am going to this funeral thing, then I need to be—oh don't look at me that way. When you give me the look, I act all stupid and pathetic and weak and I just don't wan to make a complete fool out of myself, which is why I opted out of giving a eulogy." I raced across the room, hugged him, and placed my hand on the side of his face.

"I love you so much, and we are going to make it through today, and we are going to get through this illness, and we are going to go right back to the way things were—if you want or if you wanna, we can work on some of your other issues."

"What's all this "we" crap you keep on mentioning? Who is _we_?" he asked, rolling his eyes, and then looking down when he realized I was being serious.

"You and me, just the two of us, well mainly the two of us. If you want to keep on being in contact with your mom then we—or you—can do that. Of course you can do whatever you wan, I wasn't saying, I don't know what I'm saying."

"I think I like, we," was the last serious thing he said all morning. He started making jokes right after, and didn't stop until just before the service started. The actual funeral was total hell. House just sat there, grinding his teeth, breathing sharply, and trying not to cry. I told him to squeeze my hand, but it turned out to be a stupid idea. He nearly broke a couple of my fingers, but it seemed to help, and I was willing to let him break every bone in my body if it could get him through this.

"I love you," I leaned over and whispered when things seemed at their worst. House would turn and look at me momentarily, nod, and then go back to staring at the pew.

Later he actually seemed to be doing better, talking to a few relatives, smiling (pretending to smile) and looking sat in all the right places, but for the most part, he'd tell people he was feeling tired and sit on the couch in his mother's living room with me.

"I'm an idiot," House leaned over, whispering in my ear at one point, early in evening. Now I've heard him call pretty much everyone he's ever met, "stupid," but it's rare for him to insult himself. "It shouldn't hurt—I don't miss him, but I still feel bad. Which means that I—there has to be something very wrong with me."

"No there isn't. Your father just died—I know—and he might have been evil monster who treated you like crap for most of your life, and he probably never acted like he loved you—which is what you really wanted…"

"I already know _that_. I've been feeling like garbage ever since I heard, because I thought that if I could be smart enough, good enough, or whatever, I could make him love me, but this is different. I think—I always said I hated him, but now I'm not so sure. How stupid do I have to care about the guy who—treated me like crap, as you put it?"

"I don't know what to tell you about that except, you loved him because he was your dad, and you thought that if you were the perfect son he would treat you better, and the perfect son would always love his dad no matter what."

"Psych 101 total bullshit! I could do better in my sleep." Despite his anger, House was so uncomfortable with this conversation that he actually began to squirm. "Doesn't mean you're wrong, just stupid."

"May I continue you or do you want to remind me how asinine I'm being?" He shrugged. "You did the best you could, and he didn't give you want you wanted. He died without giving you what you wanted, and now you feel depressed, maybe scared even. If he, your own father, couldn't love you, who can? Well, _I _love you, and your dad, was an ass. He was a hundred million times worse than you are."

"I'm pretty screwed up, aren't I?" House asked, watching as the last guest stepped out the door. "Never mind, don't answer that. This would be so much easier if there was some sort of a right answer. I mean, what am I supposed to do?" He wasn't asking me for an answer. He just wanted to try and talk things out himself. "I dunno, maybe I couldn't do what I do if I wasn't—a mess, but I still don't like," House sighed, forcing his hands into his pockets.

"You need self-esteem. Everybody does, and I don't mean the pride you feel over being able to solve cases without trying. You are a good man, and you deserve love, affection. You deserve to be treated well. People should be nice to you."

"People should be nice to everybody, but they're not. We all treat each other like crap. It's not just my father, and I—what he did was worse than most people but, he…god damn he's really dead." This was when he began to cry, his entire body racked with huge, limbering sobs. He cried so hard that when he finally finished, he seemed exhausted. "My head is killing me," he explained, yawned, and reached into his jacket pocket for the pill bottle.

"Is everything all right over here?" Blythe asked, making her way to our side, handing a plate with a Ruben on it to him. "You haven't eaten anything all day. Please, Greg? For me?" He nodded, chewing carefully.

"I guess I didn't get much sleep last nihgt, I'm sorry, Mom."

"I don't think you got _any_ sleep last nihgt. Why don't you take a nap in the guest room?" she asked, mussing his hair gently. When he was alone with just the two of us, House seemed to be a little more relaxed, like he was opening up.

"I'll go with," I suggested and he went from sitting with a blank stare on his face to standing up, practically dragging me to the room with him. I sat down, half laying half seated, holding his body close, and Greg fell asleep immediately.

I think the nighttime is worse for him than during the day, especially when he's asleep. He can't protect himself when he's sleeping, and then there are the dreams. The nightmares only come at night, usually, but when he's having one, it's like he's a defenseless, helpless child again. I see him suffering and I know he feels as if his father's attacking him. That night he seemed even worse than usual. I wasn't sure whether I should wake him up or let him try to work through the dream on his own. As was typical with his nightmares, Greg woke up, crying, but he didn't sob this time. Now he only made a weak, scared sound, his eyes wide opened, like he was begging me for help, and I didn't know how to do it.

"Is there any way you could see fit to tell me about the dream? Maybe I can, maybe we can come up with some way to deal with this, huh?"

"I don't really know if I can do that. My life sucks bad enough as is, but as long as I an maintain some sense of control over what people know, then they can't—you don't realize how pathetic and weak I really am."

"You were abused, and you didn't tell anybody about it, for years. It's only natural to dream about what happened. I mean, Hell, I still have nightmares about that scene in The Exorcist—you know where she turns her head around and—you think I'm lying don't you?"

"No, you would have to be the biggest idiot on the planet to lie to me about that if it wasn't true, but you don't understand. You can't. It's not even close to the same thing. He was so big and strong and I was just a weak, pathetic, stupid, little boy."

"Those are his words, not yours. You're not stupid, or pathetic, and you are not weak. You survived unimaginable horror. I can't think of anybody with more strengh than you."

"The dreams are exactly the same as it was when things really happened. Only it's slower, more painful, and usually I can't move or talk. I wake up confused—that's what makes it so bad. Can we be done, I hate talking about this."

"If I told you talking about this is actually going to help, is there any chance you'd believe me?"

"If I told you I had mind-blowing sex with a nineteen-year-old cheerleader nymphomaniac on a glass coffee table for twenty six hours last weekend, would you believe me?"

"How has bottling up your emotions until you feel like you're going to explode worked for you so far?" I asked, watching as he winced, staring up at me. "I'm sorry, but it wouldn't be so painful if I wasn't right."

"He used to say stuff like that. You don't know what's best for me! Okay, maybe _you_ do, but it doesn't make it suck any less. He—the dreams make me feel like I'm through it all over again, okay? It hurts, and it's scary. Am I done now?"

"What about me? Do I—I mean, are you afraid of me?" I asked, gently clutching his body close to mine.

"What difference does that make?" House was clearly uncomfortable, but at the same time he seemed to want to talk to me about it. "No, I'm not scared of you, but why—so what?"

'When you wake up, if you see me, and you know I would be willing to do anything to protect you—would it help? Does it make you feel safe, seeing me?"

"Don't be stupid, Jimmy. You'd hafta spend the rest of your life sleeping with me just so I'd feel better if I have a bad dream. They're just nightmares."

"Well hang on here, I didn't say—would you just answer the question I'm actually asking you for once in your life? Does it make you feel better to know that I'm around?"

"Well yeah, but—"

"Then, until we can come up with something better, until I can help you learn to deal with the dreams, remember that I will always e here with you. I will hold you and love you and watch over you while you sleep, in case you do have a bad dream, and this way if you wake up scared, then you'll see me any you'll know that I'll never let anybody hurt you ever again."

"I was wrong, I'm not the most pathetic guy on the planet, you our, but maybe this idea of yours doesn't completely suck. And you're not going to tell anyone about me, are you?"

"Like they'd ever believe me," I snipped but he looked at me blankly again. "Of course I'm not going to tell anybody. How am I supposed o ask you to trust me if I'm gonna go around blabbing your—our—personal stuff all over the hospital?" House nodded, sighing. He sat up, and hugged me. "I love you," I whispered, stroking his cheek softly.

"Yeah, me too." I'm still not sure what happened that day. Maybe it took until his father was actually in the ground for House to be able to accept the man might be gone for good. Maybe it took the closure of seeing, well everything for him to feel truly safe. Maybe I said something right, made him believe that I wasn't going to walk out on him, or hurt him the way everyone else had—although I very much doubt it was the last one. I hadn't behaved any differently on this day than all the ones before it. I was just there for him when I was needed, which is more than anybody else had done—which when you think about it doubly sucks because what I did wasn't in any way remarkable.

"Have I mentioned how I feel like crap in the last hour?" he asked.

"No, you were asleep for about an hour, hour and a half, and then uh—I actually, you've been really quiet since we left the apartment, I don't think you've complained about anything today."

"Then I'm just gonna tell you I feel like crap a hundred times. God that would be annoying. My head is killing me, like actually—when you're in pain all day every day you learn to live with it, but this is worse than I'm used to."

"Does your hurt more, less, or about the same as it has been since you got sick? I need to know if the meds are working, because if the pain's worse," I didn't have to finish my sentence, so I didn't.

"It's not worse than before, just worse than I'm usually used to, which was sort of the point of my little rant. Can you guess what I'm trying not to tell you when I say I feel like I'm gonna throw up?"

"You're being an ass to prove to me that you're still the same guy you were before you got sick because you don't want me to pity you. I don't, I feel bad, but I'm not—I don't. I love you, and everything is going to be all right."

"It better be," he muttered, and then, "get me a glass of water, I gotta take like twenty different kinds of pills—don't make that face, you're the one who told me to take them, and I'm going to puke all over you if I don't take this one."

"Yeah, yeah, shut up and come with me. You should eat something with those. Please, eat something. All you've had today is half a sandwich," I pleaded, handing him the cane, and giving House another hug.

"Me. Puke, You. Can't dry swallow these pills. Do any of those words mean anything to you, at all? Don't squeeze me or it's gonna come out all over the floor, and all over you."

"Okay," I whispered, letting go and walking to the kitchen, watching as he walked behind me, smiling a little. "Can you say the thing again? You know, what you said before, about you and me, and stuff?"

"I love you," I said, touching his hand for a long time when I handed him the glass. House squeezed my fingers again, more gently this time, and took his pills, staring into my eyes like he was looking for a tell, a secret. "I'm not lying. I do love you, and everything's gonna be all right. I'm not gonna let anybody hurt you. I'm just gonna love and protect you from the bad guys or—whatever. I'll be here, always, I promise."

"Now all you gotta do is fix my head," he reminded me. "I never thought I'd say it, but the treatments actually the easiest, least stressful part of my life right now. How messed up is that? Look, I uh, I'm not exactly sure how to say this, but I wanted to tell you, I mean I would like to say…"

"You're welcome," I said, trying to make it clear that I understood what he was trying to. Emotional stuff is hard for him, usually he didn't even bother to try, and I knew that this was big.

"You didn't think I was gonna _thank_ you, did ya' Jimmy?" House laughed, a little, rolling his eyes. "I wanted to ask if we could order a pizza or something. Nothing personal, I just feel like some pepperoni."

"We should ask your mom if she wants some. Unless you were thinking of going back to the hotel for dinner, in which case we might want to wait a little while before we order, or…"

This time House interrupted me by saying, "would you stop talking to me like I'm a five-year-old? I think my mom likes mushrooms. If she wants us to stay that is." Naturally she did want to have dinner with Greg and me. The two of them talked, mostly to each other that night, but I didn't mind because he needed to catch up with his mother, and the relationship was doing him a lot of good.

The next few weeks went by pretty quickly, and he really did seem to be doing better. He seemed almost at happy, at least with his relationship with his mom. Frankly I don't blame him for focusing on working on things out with her. He was sick, and in pain, but at least this was making him feel good. I was doing everything I could to make him better and the treatments were working,

"That is if by working you mean, they're making me feel like a bomb went off inside my body. I'm tried. My head hurts, and I can't eat," he told me once. "If I was in cancer research, there'd be a cure already." Yet, despite the pain, the fatigue, the nausea, and his sorrow, even with all of this, he was getting better.


	7. Chapter 7

"I wish I could push a button and make the pain all go away

"I wish I could push a button and make the pain all go away

I wish I had the magic words but I don't know what to say  
I wish I could take the wasted years and throw them all away  
And it might sound easy for me to say  
You are going to find a way to fix what's broken," Everclear.

House and I had to fly back to New Jersey almost immediately after the funeral, for his next round of chemo. I got us up an hour early the morning we were supposed to head to the hospital, but I wasn't really surprised when I realized that we were running late, and House wasn't even close to being ready to go.

"Hey, we gotta get moving," I called, leaning my head into the bedroom, expecting the holdup to be pain or fatigue related. "You alright?" I sat down next to him on the bed. House was wearing a pair of jeans, and the oversized, faded, threadbare t-shirt he'd slept in. "Is the pain bad? Need an extra pill?" He shook his head. "Too sick to go to the hospital?"

"I don't think the treatments working," he explained. I didn't have to have to tell him how often I hear that. _I'm too tired to be getting well. I'm throwing up all the time. Can't you give me something else?_ He already knew this. He also knew that it was way too early for us to be able to see whether or not he was getting any better. Still part of me couldn't prevent myself from reminding him of all these things.

"That's not an entirely uncommon feeling. You're sick and the meds make you feel worse." Greg shot me a look. _I know_. "I'd run a couple of blood tests, or re-scan your head, but chances aren't very good…we just won't be able to see anything yet." _I know._ "Then what is it? You gotta talk to me, tell me what's going on or else I don't know how to help you."

"I'm a doctor, and I know my own body just as well as I know physiology. Hell, I know it _better_ than anything else. I'm sick—I get that. I'm so—I get what this stuff is supposed to do to me, but this isn't just me feeling like crap because of the chemo. My head still hurts, all the time. It's been—almost two months and…"

"You are scared of something, right? I'm sorry, you have to go slow. I'm not nearly as smart as you are." This time he nodded. "Is the treatment you're afraid of? The pain? If you don't—do you really want me to keep asking stupid questions or are you gonna tell me?"

"When I was a little kid, my mom took me to church with her, a lot, and at first I really did believe it. I thought that—I studied it, like crazy, knew everything about God, and religion, and Heaven and Hell." _ This sort of fear doesn't come out of nowhere, _I thought.

"So…you're scared because you think you're dying?" I was confused, mainly because he was an atheist, a devout one, if there is such a thing. There were so many thing things he always seemed so sure of, but now his beliefs seemed to be shaken. "Or…are you afraid of what comes after?"

"There is no _after_," he said, forcefully, too forcefully, like he didn't want to be pushed any further on the subject. I hugged him, gently. "There isn't. There isn't. There isn't." He wasn't telling _me_ this, but trying to convince himself.

"You're not gonna die, not yet. I don't know what I'd do if you were—okay, that was the wrong way to go about things. Sorry. I'm just not used to you being like this. You know everything. Come on, if we go the hospital, I can give something, help calm you down, and we can talk there. You're not dying. This is just really, really scary, and painful, and nauseating, but…We both know what will happen if we stopped all treatment."

"What if—what if you put me through all of this crap, keep pumping the drugs into me, and I end up, terminal all the same?" _I hate that question. _It never ceases to amaze me how often I hear that, and what's worse, even after all these years, I don't know how to answer it. "That whole not responding thing must make your other paitents feel totally reassured, doesn't it?" I sighed.

"Unfortunately, that happens sometimes. There's not really anything I can do or say to change it. If you want a surefire cure, you should have gotten crabs, instead of cancer. I know they sort of seem alike, especially since—oh, come on, that was funny. Okay, there was always a possibility that it wouldn't help, but you knew that much going in. Why are you suddenly freaking out over this?" Rather than answer me, he stood up, took off his shirt, and finished getting changed. "You brought this up for a reason."

"If I agree to go to the hospital would you shut up?" I shook my head, and he grunted. "I had a weird dream last night. Just sort of—well. I don't even know what. Guess it made me more scared than I'd like to think."

"Must have been one serious fucking dream, to make you start thinking about the afterlife. I'm not going to force you to tell me about the nightmare, but talking about it will help. That's it though. I'm not even gonna ask again, just want you to know that I think."

"Shut up! You are so incredibly annoying. How do you ever get anybody to trust you with lines like that? I'll tell you about the dream, just stop trying to help, you stupid moron."

"I'm not as good at this stuff as you might think."

"No kidding. This… It—okay, so, I had a—I died, in the dream. It's stupid, and pointless, and weird, and…nevermind. I don't need to talk about it. I'm on a million different meds, not just counting the toxic sludge. I'm bound to have a bizarre dream or two." For the next three and a half hours, he sat quietly, watching his soap and playing Gameboy. I knew better than to try and make him talk about anything, until he was ready. This morning's catastrophic conversation had showed me just how fragile of a state House was in.

Later, he had a flashback—which was really the only way to described what happened when his brain couldn't fully handle what was happening to him and Greg regressed to (approximately) the age of a kindergartner.

For all intensive purposes he was five, emotionally, and mentally. Lucky I had seen enough of these to know what the early warning signs were. When it happened his eyes got about a hundred times bigger, or at least they looked bigger, less tired, younger. He'd open his mouth, almost like he wanted to talk, and then close it again. Greg would hunch over, stop making eye contact—not that there was much to begin with—and just looking at how frightened and on edge he was, made me sad and scared. _ At least this I can help with_, I thought.

"Do you think you could tell me if the pain gets really bad? 'Cuz we have medicine for that—and for your tummy…for your stomach. It's okay to tell me if it hurts, even just a little bit. You're not complaining. Sorry, I know I'm probably bothering you, talking so fast, and about—you wanted to tell me something, didn't you?" He nodded, still looking away from me, like he felt shame in being scared. "Can you tell me?"

"I dunno," he replied, quietly, solemnly. "It's not—it was just some stupid baby dream." I knew where he had heard those words, but before I had a chance to tell him his fears weren't stupid or infantile, he said something else. "I died, and they sent me someplace, because I was bad." He put a large amount of emphasis on the word bad, like he believed he was a monster, or at least, whoever had done the punishing told him as much. "_He _was there too. I got locked up in this room, it was like a cage, but it was outside, cold, dirty, lots of leafs and bushes and grass. I could see the stars, but only a very, very tiny sliver of moon. There was an old dirty sleeping bag in the corner of the cage, but nothing else. The whole dream was just him, hurting me, in the woods cage, and telling me "you might as well relax. We're gonna be here, together—forever." He said I deserved it."

"Oh—God," I whispered. I was right, that was one really fucking horrible nightmare. And it was exactly the sort of thing House would tell himself was possible. Greg had been close to death a few times before, after his infarction, and when he was shot, but both times, he only had a day or two to think about what was happening. Most cancer paitents think about death, their own lives, the afterlife, you name it. When you have that long to think about this stuff, it can make even the most cynical atheists reconsider their beliefs. "Okay, well first of all, and this is important, you are not evil; you're not even bad. Sometimes you are—sometimes you do not good things, but everybody is the same way, and usually they feel guilty about it when they do. It's the people who don't care, the one's who don't feel bad, the ones who don't stop doing those things, who really hurt people, for no reason, they're the ones who go to that place."

"It doesn't work like that. I'm not stupid. I know what happens to bad, bad people. I think I might be—I think I might. I think maybe there's something really, really wrong with me."

"Somebody did something very, very wrong _to _you, but it wasn't your fault. And every religion has a different explanation of what happens when we die. Jewish people don't believe in Hell. Buddhists say that our soul gets reborn into the body of another person, or another animal, but you don't have most of your old memories. They say deja vou is us remembering somethings from a past life."

"What about you?" he asked, lifting his head up to look me in the eyes. "What do you believe in?" Even though he was basically asking the same question twice, the first question had been almost nonchalant, but the second one. Oh boy was he desperate.

"When I was in college, I read this book, it was a novel, but the guy who wrote it did a lot of research, and he said that—well in the book, almost everybody went to this place. They called it heaven, but—everyone there worked, created things, wrote books, studied, learned, and they kept people who cared about each other together, family members, friends, lovers. It wasn't religious. The only people who don't go there are the ones who think their too good for it, and the ones who do stuff you can't even dream of—murderers, people who hut little kids, people who hurt other adults, mobsters, and you haven't done any of that, have you?"

"I've killed lots of people." The child-like House disappeared just as quickly as he had shown up, although part of me wondered just how grown up he really was.

"I'm an oncologist; you think I don't know about losing paitents? My list is probably _way_ longer than yours." Based on the look he gave me, I knew he had anticipated my response. _That's not what I mean._ "If preventing the suffering of a person who knows exactly what they're begging for is a sin, then there's a big room in Hell jam-packed with doctors who do the right thing. Have you ever done it for someone didn't ask? When they couldn't ask?" Greg shook his head violently. "I think God or— whoever—would understand. At least, I hope they will."

"Would you do that for me, if I—if I'm right about being…about the meds not working?" he asked, another desperate question. "If I'm really…you know." _If I'm going to die anyway, _he meant but didn't say.

Yes—but. Look this is. Can you—look at me. Look at—okay. I've been doing this a long time, and a guy in your situation, tumor this size, at this stage, it could go either way. The people who are—the ones—it's all about your—their—attitude. People with a good attitude, who think positively—"

"Oh come off it, not this again. I hate it when you do this. Don't tell me that if I act like the sun shines out of everybody's asses, I'll get better. I act like me…." I wasn't sure what he was going to say next, mainly because he threw up, twice, right in a row. Then, I helped cleaned his face with a cool cloth, gave him a large dose of Zophran, and watched as he leaned back, staring silently at the TV.

"I didn't mean it like that—" I tried to explain, but Greg held his hand up. He was shaking slightly, yawning and I could see something else on his face, not quite tears, but close. "I think I said that the wrong way. What I mean is, come on—just. You don't have to be Mr. Sunshine and lollypops, but not telling yourself and anyone who will listen, "I'm going to die" every fifteen minutes might do you some good. But I'm just an oncologist, what do I know about cancer."

"Not funny," he replied. There was a soft sigh, and then he—leaned forward, turning the TV off with the remote control. "I'm having a really crappy day. Had the dream and it really, really messed me up. Couldn't—I just wanted to talk about it. I figured out of everybody, you'd be the one who wouldn't give me a hard time."

"Then I guess I really screwed the pooch on this one, didn't I? Didn't you make a rule about me not being able to sleep with my ex-wives anymore?" House didn't even crack a smile. "I'm sorry. Guess I'm just as messed up as you are. Gimme another chance. Forgive me?"

"Don't worry, Jimmy. I'm gonna need a lot more pep talks, or whatever you wanna call them. Plenty more chances for you to screw up again." This time he did laugh, a little.

"It freaked me out to hear you talking about dying, and taking it—and believing it. Guess you're not the only one who's afraid because of that dream of yours…It was a bad one. Scary stuff, House, scary stuff."

"Maybe I oughta keep my stupid nightmares to myself from now on, hmm?"

"Don't do that, please. I'm only human, get scared sometimes too; I can't help it, but that doesn't make me useless. I can help with the bad dreams, regardless of whether or not the medicine works. Remember the thing…remember what we talked about after the funeral?" He turned the TV back on, and sat quietly, every once in a while, commenting on whether or not he'd be willing to nail any of the nurses who walked by the room, and I'd give him advice on which ones he actually had a chance with/ how to hook them.

I let him have his quiet time, let him think, let him daydream. One thing went our way. This time the antiemtics did what they were supposed to. He didn't throw up all afternoon, and was able to eat some solid food for dinner. Then again, it's a lot easier to eat when he didn't have to choke down hospital crap. We ordered in a lot, or sometimes Blythe would volunteer to go get something. That day it was Chinese take out—not that he did more than pick at some fried rice and eat almond cookies—and then we both curled up in his tiny hospital bed, sleeping on and off. He woke up twenty times between 11:00 PM and 9:00 AM. When he snapped awake, I'd put my hand on top of his, and help him, and talked to him, until he was able to relax, and go back to sleep. Then, the whole thing would start all over again.

I don't think we got more than two hours of sleep total for the night. Unfortunately, the next day didn't start off much better. House was still freaked out by his dream, and nothing I could say seemed to help. In the afternoon, he sat staring straight ahead, refusing my attempts to discus it. "Can I at least—I don't pretend to have all the answers, but that doesn't mean I don't have any."

"I don't wanna hear any more stupid stories about heavenly paradises and people writing books about…whatever. I wanna know for sure. I'm scared here, and you're gonna. If I thought your answers were useful, I'd ask for them, but they aren't so I don't care." I sighed, patting him on the back, but he pulled away.

"I love you. I'll protect you, make you healthy again…and even if…I will not let anyone or anything put you in a cell with your father. You are _not_ going to Hell….never," I promised, holding him this time, despite his protests.

"I had the dream again last night. It's nothing. I'm just…messed up from the meds and the whole not sleeping thing. I dunno. It would be nice if I could get some sleep, not have to worry aobut it. I got used to the dreams when I was a kid, when I was in high school, and college and the years afterwards. Hell…I got used to the dream where I woke in the hospital with my whole leg gone…but this. This one is different."

"Because it could really happen? Even the one…stared right _after_ your surgery. You were already getting better, and part of you knew that the worst was over, but now—I. You're just worried and scared…and now. You'll be okay."

"That's what you keep saying. I want proof, solid evidence. I think I'll take that MRI after all, maybe…maybe we might see something. Less swelling around the tumor, or…confirm my fears. What if I'm right?"

"You wanna stop all treatment?" I asked, as gently and as understandingly as I could make myself sound. _I should have known_. "Sometimes you see increased swelling, even when the meds are doing what they're supposed to. Unless your tumor has doubled in size, or—unless we know it's…I don't want to stop now. This stuff sucks. It's Hell on Earth, and it's going to keep on being Hell, but it's worth it."

"Maybe not." _Maybe I'm not_, was what he really meant. I almost wasn't able to control myself. I almost snapped at him. Luckily, almost means I caught myself just in time. _Well killing yourself would be one way to find out if you're going to Hell!_

"What am I gonna do without you? We're best friends; we do everything together. It's selfish, but I'd—and don't laugh…I'd be lost without you, completely alone. Sure, probably get some great sympathy sex from Cameron, and maybe even Lisa, but. It wouldn't be the same. Plus, I'd have the whole, not knowing where you were, or if you were safe thing driving me nuts for however long I have." House put his hand over my mouth.

"Are you trying to guilt trip me into letting you pump me full of toxic waste?" I shrugged, mainly because he still wouldn't let me talk. 'I wanna talk to my mother…and don't forget about that MRI. I don't care if we don't see anything. Please Jimmy?" he begged. I nodded.

"Which do you wanna do first?" I asked, gently stroking his hair, and scooting as close to him as I could get. He reached for the phone, cautious, like he was asking for permission. "Do you need me to dial…kidding." Greg snatched the receiver from my and, picked it up, dialed, and sat, waiting. I heard three rings before Blythe picked up.

"No, it's me, Mom. I'm—well yeah, but I'm not sick—or more sick any way. I'm just getting my meds. Sorry. I didn't know it'd show up on caller ID like that. If I did, woulda used my cell phone or something…well I'm—yeah, exactly…no that's not why I'm calling. You see…sort of. I keep having these dreams, and I remember when I was seven. We were at Oma's without—I used to go to your room, if I woke up after a bad dream, and you did something. I don't remember what though…I told Jimmy about the dream. He's helping me with that part…you don't needa hear the details…of course I think you're strong enough…no, Mom...Mom, its okay…fine. Ill tell you. I'll tell you…yeah, it was him…look I um—don't do so good if you interrupt me every time I…yeah…I dreamt that I died and went to, someplace, got stuck in this cage, an outdoor cage, with nothing but a dirty sleeping bag and him…no in the dream I was a kid, five or sixish…I dunno. Really, I don't…In my dream, I was just in this place, and da—he kept on telling me that this as my punishment for being bad….no, I know I'm not like that…yeah, he said…you knew about that?...oh right, forgot about that stupid note. Maybe that's because you wouldn't let me read it…I know you said that already…I know, but…Mommy, stop….Damnit! Sorry, I didn't mean for you to hear that, but—I just…okay, thanks…so you rubbed my stomach, like you showed Jimmy….and—singing? You used to sing to me? I don't remember that…well, uh—the thing is, Wilson can't really sing…You don't hafta do…" Greg paused, and smiled a little. I could only assume she was singing to him. "Yeah, now I—thank you…uh huh…Look, I'm sorry I bothered you. There was no reason to do that…I know, but…I know, Mom…I—I love you too…I, thanks, really think this helped me, a lot…Okay…Yeah…I'll see you next week…I'll be at home then, but I gotta warn you, it's not gonna be pretty…yeah…I love you too…you don't have to do that…no I mean, of course I would like it…yeah, okay…" he cupped his hand over the mouth piece. "My mom says she'll sing while you do that thing with my stomach. If you don't mind."

"I think that's a good idea. I'm not a good singer, like you said I could try, but it'd probably make your ears bleed," I said, chuckling softly. "You ready?" House nodded, lying back in my arms, watching the TV, with the phone on one ear, as I slowly started rub those big circles on his small belly. He smiled a little, again, blinking his eyes, once, twice, three times, then he closed them again, and they stayed that way. He slept for five hours straight, during which time I talked to Blythe, ordered some food for us, made sure he got his pain and nausea medication when he was supposed to, kept the nurses, orderlies, janitorial staff, doctors, and med students from waking him up/ bothering him, and reviewed some paitent files so that I wouldn't have to do that while Greg was awake. When he opened his eyes that evening, he looked a little bit better. "Hey," I whispered, as I ran my hand along the side of his face. "You feeling any better?"

"I didn't have—I don't think I had any dreams. I was just so—exhausted that I crashed, slept right through…um, I'm not sure how long. Feel less tired, and a little less freaked out. Maybe I don't really need that MRI after all. I don't think—I'm not convinced that your meds are doing any good, but. I, uh, I dunno, think it was mostly just me being scared 'cuz of the dream. Now I feel better…sort of."

"I'm glad to hear it, although, if you change your mind about it, you can have the test in a second. Whatever will make you feel happy, or less scared, less…bad. I got us some food from the cafeteria for dinner, if you feel up to eating. I know it can be tough, but you really need to eat, even if you want something else."

"I'm okay," he said, quietly. "You were—wow…you gave me my meds when I was asleep? Why did you do that for?"

"You were exhausted. You needed the rest, and I knew that if the pain got bad enough, it could wake you up, didn't wanna have to call your mother again, just so you could go back to sleep. You looked so—peaceful, good." House rolled his eyes, reaching for the potato chips. "How about taking a bite of your sandwich first?" He laughed lightly. "Maybe I will call Mommy after all." Then, he laughed hard.

"You do that. She'll wanna talk to me and I'll play up the whole, but I'm siiiiiiiiiiiiick, and I don't wanna have a sam-which angle," he said, trying to make his voice sound pathetic and small, but he was acting like more like himself than usual, and it just sounded like Greg being Greg. "She's _my _mother. Who's side you really think she's gonna take?"

"Fine, eat the Ruben _after_ the potato chips, just get something in your stomach that isn't junk. Then, again you eat three bags of those things a day, you'll end up gaining back all the weight you've lost, so who knows…could be a good thing. Then I won't be stuck snuggling with a skeleton."

"I never snuggle," he griped, snatching up my ham and cheese sandwich, and taking a big bite out of it. "Make sure you get the word out on that one." He put the food down, and stared me straight in the eyes. We stared at each other for three minutes, then he started laughing. "You gotta lower the dosage on those pain meds. I'm only half as smart as I useda be. Still got you beat by a mile, but….that's not saying much. Or, maybe I should be allowed to hit you over the head with a surgical 2X4."

"Yeah, I'll get right on that."

"Pussy."

"At least my pants stay on."

"I'm taller."

"I can eat without throwing up!"

"That one's your fault; and I still better looking than you."

"Yeah _right_. And even if that was true, people still like me better."

"At least I'm not dating _me_."

"We've had this conversation before, House. You're pathetic, I'm worse. Can we move past the childish argument and go straight to the make up sex?"

"What makes you think you're getting some?" He asked, looking up at the television set. "Hey, look, there's a monster truck rally next weekend. Think we'll be able to get tickets? Maybe you can tell them my sad story and I'll get to drive one of the cars or something."

"I can try, but usually they save those sorts of things for the pathetic cancer _kids_. You might be immature, childish, and probably have the attention span of an eight-year-old, but you've also got that whole Peter Pan thing going on here."

"Peter Pan never grew up—well not until the end of the movie. He was a little boy in a little boy's body," Greg reminded me, scooting closer, watching me again, only this time he wasn't after a staring contest. "Can we go?"

"We'll see what your white count is at the end of the week. Don't make that face. The chemo puts your immune system in the toilet. Sitting in a room full of total strangers, half of them yawning, and sneezing on you, the rest screaming so hard their spit lands on your face…it's a bad place to be when you can't fight off the common cold. We can try. You know how much I'd hate to miss these things, but…I just don't think you should risk getting a life threatening illness over Robosaurus." "It's a dinosaur that eats cars!" "I know; we've been there before. I love going to monster truck rallies with you. It's the coolest thing, and…I wish I could go to all of them. I know you feel the same way. You probably like it even more than me, but, we'll have to wait and see. If it's your life, or monster trucks, there's no contest." He rolled his eyes at me again, pretending to yawn, but he believed me. The rest of the night I was almost able to pretend that we were just hanging out in his apartment after work, even though he was actually in the hospital. He was talking more, smiling occasionally, eating a little, and even the pain seemed to subside, sort of. Things were finally starting to go our way. And even though I had been telling him he was gonna be fine for the last two months, I myself didn't completely believe it. I was worried that he just wasn't strong enough to make it through this. Between his finally starting to deal with having been abused as a kid, his father's death, his changing relationship with his mother, and the chemo drugs, it was just a lot, all at once. He was in pain. He was sick. He was sad, terrified, and hurting something awful. Greg had been struggling just to hang on, but now, he seemed to have that spark in his eyes again. Maybe it was because he seemed to have gotten a good "night's" sleep for the first time since he told me about the headaches (or even longer than that), maybe it was his mother, maybe it was the monster trucks, maybe it was a combination of everything. "We're gonna be okay; I promise," I told him, holding his body close to mine, kissing his hair, soft, gentle. "Everything is going to be alright." "Yeah, yeah, yeah, you keep on saying that. It's sort of annoying, hearing the same thing over and over again. Shut up, I'm missing my show." House smiled, picking up his Ruben, and turning his attention back to the TV. I wrapped my arms around his body, pulling him close, and holding on as tight as I could. "I wanted to uh—tell you, I wanted to say something…to you. What you did this afternoon—the stuff you're doing. It's a lot and I really. That is, uh, I wanted to say. I'm glad I have you around, dunno how good I'd be doing, if I didn't have you around, if you weren't the one taking care of me. Thanks," he said quickly, and then went back to the TV yet again, pretending none of this had ever happened. "You're welcome," I told him, and felt a small lump rising in my throat. I smiled, trying to hide it, letting go of him momentarily so I could wipe the tears from my eyes. Then put my arm back in its place. "I love you, House." He was quiet for a long time, and part of me wondered whether or not he actually heard me, because most of the time he mocked me when I said that, or told me he liked me too, because he thought he had to. Then, around midnight, he looked up at me, smiled, and said, "I love you too, Jimmy," before closing his eyes and going back to sleep, and he really meant it. 


	8. Chapter 8

"It took some trust, on your part, to say the things you need,

And I won't say, anything that I can't take back,  
Cause I'm a fake, and I can't do this anymore.  
It's not the first time that I've heard this; it's nothing new and I might regret it.  
There's no words to speak, to explain this.

So just be patient and I'll make this painless," Nothing Every Stays.

Two more months went by. We went to his appointments, played videogames, watched a monster truck rally—and sat in the third row—got high together a couple of times, and did a lot of talking. House's hair still hadn't fallen out, which actually happens in about 15% of patients. I woke up early on the morning of his next scheduled MRI. If the results were good, he'd start his final round of chemo. If it wasn't…well I was trying not to think about that possibility. House had been extremely nervous throughout most of the previous night, and hadn't fallen sleep until almost 3:00 AM, so I knew we were going to be late. Not that I cared. He was sick, and needed his rest. So, I let him sleep in. The alarm clock was set for 7:45, but just before it rolled around, I turned the thing off, and set my cell phone to vibrate in another 20 minutes, and then I woke him up, as gently as I could. I helped him pick out some sweats, and put them on. He smiled, as my hand grazed his thigh, watching me tiredly.

"You okay for today," I asked, touching his hand in mine, and sitting down beside him, and trying to be patient. Even though he had only been up for fifteen minutes, he was already getting on my nerves. I watched Greg rock slowly, squeezing my hand in his and sighing. "You're still worried that it's not going to be good, that those dreams were right?"

"I was having the stupid nightmare when you woke me up. I'm just not exactly in the best, mood, but—actually my head hasn't been hurting as much lately, and the other symptoms are also slightly down from where they were when I first told you about them. Just a bit though, nothing to celebrate."

"That's still good," I said, helping him stand up, mostly responding so he'd know I was listening. At this point House didn't really want to have a conversation. He needed to tell me something, and expected me to listen and be quiet. So I did just that, as the two of us got into the car. Greg sat beside me in the front seat, staring into space and—for a while—not saying a word. After a few blocks, I turned my head to look at him quickly, flashing a smile, and moved one hand from the wheel to his knee.

"Don't do that," he ordered, sounding more than a little uncomfortable. I quickly replaced it. Greg finally added, "Maybe I'm a little afraid that it's not gonna be so good news." _I know,_ I thought. _ You've been telling me that for months. _"I don't think you get it. It's like I'm a—I think I'm in big trouble here, but, I. Nevermind; it's nothing. Pointless for me to worry until we know what's going on."

"But, you're still—you can't control emotional stuff, Greg, especially fear, and pain, and depression. Do you understand that?" I don't know how many times I'd explained this to him, but I knew I would have to keep doing so for a while.

"I know _that _you idiot," he snapped, rolling his eyes the way he always did. I patted his hand. "But it doesn't make me feel better." House and I drove the rest of the way without talking much, but he didn't seem as concerned as he had been. Obviously he was still upset by the dream, and there was something going on, something he needed to deal with, or else the guy wouldn't be having the dream anymore. I just wasn't sure what or why. I held his hand while putting him into the machine, gave him special headphones so he could listen to music instead of concentrating on what was happening, and went into the other room. He didn't talk during the procedure. I stared in silence at the monitor, watching his brain get clearer and clearer. He didn't say a word when I brought him upstairs, or when I hooked his central line up to the meds, or when I handed him his Gameboy.

"The news is good, but not great," I explained, sitting beside him. "Your tumor hasn't gotten any bigger, and it _is_ smaller than it was in the last scan..." House interrupted me.

"But not gone, and not as small as you would like at this point in time," he explained, as if he had been expecting that. "And don't tell me everything is going to be okay. It won't help." I nodded, and hugged him again. "How much longer?"

"After this week, we're—you're going to take some time off to recuperate. Then, a couple more rounds of chemo and another MRI, in—maybe three or four months." I smiled at him, gently, and kissed his forehead. "You want a patch?" House shook his head. "Morphine?" Another no. "Anything?"

"Do we have any more pot left," he asked, nervously, and a little bit sad.

"A little, yeah, but I can't give it to you here," I teased. "Your stomach bothering you already?" He nodded. "Zophran?" He shrugged, pretending not care, but I gave him that and a pain shot and, after a few minutes, he seemed a tiny bit better. I put my arm around his shoulder while Greg played Gameboy and listened to his iPod. After a couple of hours, I tapped him on the shoulder. House gave me a dirty look. "Yeah I know; you hate it when I do this, but we need to talk." He groaned, yanked one of the buds out, but didn't actually turn the music off. "I just gave you big news, and you didn't react"

"I'm not five-years-old. I understand that this is not an exact science, despite the fact that you're still technically practicing medicine. I'm not mad at you because this is taking longer than you originally thought. It sucks, but talking about it isn't gonna do anything. I don't blame you either. So, can I just deal with this the way I usually do," he practically begged.

"By drowning your sorrows in a bucket of bourbon and Vicodin while you blast music into your head, bite down on your lower lip to keep from crying, and completely isolate yourself from the world until you have a breakdown, and finally do turn into that five-year-old version of yourself permanently?" He didn't give me the you're-such-an-idiot look, but he had to focus all his energy on behaving himself. 'That was harsh. I'm sorry." He shrugged, rubbing his chin, and turned the Gameboy off. "You _are _going to be alright…well, I mean. I can fix the cancer."

"You're really not gonna let this go—ever—are you? Not unless we talk, and talk, and talk, and talk, and talk and talk, for at least seven hours?" Greg sighed, rolled his eyes, once more.

"I'm just worried, because you don't seem to be dealing with this, and it's a _huge _setback. These last two weeks were supposed to be it, and now, we've—you've—probably got an extra six months of what is basically torture. Don't you think that's a big deal," I almost shrieked.

"I was fully expecting that thing to be two or three times bigger than it was when I first—when you first found it." I must have looked shocked because he added, "I don't think you're an entirely terrible doctor, but—I haven't really had the best luck health wise. My appendix ruptured when I was 12. I've had substance abuse problems—actually, my whole life, but dear ol' dad can be blamed for that one. He was the one ho used to force his four-year-old to pop quaaludes and drink schnapps. Then, there's my leg. I got shot, and now this. Pretty much learned to always expect the worst. So, you know—I'm not dying. This was actually good news to me." He relaxed a little when I put my arms around him, but also fought me a little, mostly—I think—just for the sake of maintaining his independence.

"Hey," I swore, rubbing his back and shoulders, and kissing his hair a little. "I've got you, Greg. I'm here, and I will take care of. I'll do whatever it takes to make you feel better again."

"_Again, _suggests I was ever okay to begin with," he said, in _that _tone, the one he used when he was annoyed or trying to sound annoyed but was actually covering up some other emotion.

"You prefer things this way don't you? And before you call me an idiot, I've got some proof, or at least a little logic here. As much as your life might suck right now, as bad as your head might hurt, even with the nausea, and fatigue, and everything else, your leg doesn't hurt. If I were in your position, I'd gladly trade this world for one where I had to live with the sort of pain you deal with on a daily basis," I said, hoping to impress him, and failing miserably.

"Then you're an even bigger idiot than I thought," he snapped. "I'm so tired I can barely get out of bed, and yet I hardly sleep. When I do, I have these, weird, mixed, up confusing, bizarre, painful dreams. I can't eat. I throw up all the time, and have to wear sweatpants, with the string tied tight, because I lost so much weight. Then, there's the tumor symptoms, clumsiness, inability to write, concentrate, and read more. I could have a seizure or hallucination—though that one might be fun…and I haven't even gotten to the pain yet. My head hurts a million times worse than my leg ever did, and this is just the regular, everyday ache. Every so often—just to keep it interesting—the tumor kicks it up a notch. Bam!—someone shoved an ice pick through my eye and all the way out the back of my skull," he shouted furiously. "And you think I would rather have _this _than my usual Hell?" I blushed, mortified. Greg sighed, but rubbed his head against my neck anyway. "You weren't thinking about it that way, were you?" I shook my head. "You just figured it must not suck as bad because I—I can't even imagine the logic behind this one, especially since I look like crap right now," he explained. I nodded, held onto his tiny, thin frame, apologizing over and over. He fell asleep around 3:00, after I gave him his afternoon pain meds, and woke up just as they were bringing in his dinner. Naturally this brought up other issues, other problems. He didn't want hospital food—although I had a feeling he'd say I don't want…no mater what I had brought to him—and refused to eat anything.

"You just tell me what you want, and I'll have it brought in for you. Hell, if you like I'll have something flown in from California if you know a good restaurant in San Diego," I swore, already anticipating the response.

"Just California," he snickered. I sighed, and winked at him, holding my hands up a little. "Besides, I just stopped feeling like my stomach is an elevator stuck on up-chuck." He laughed a little. I didn't know hat to say, so I just sighed again, but nodded. "Am I really that pathetic?"

"Um...yeah, but it's not you. It's the med, and in a couple of months, when you're healthy—er, and you've gained back some of that weight, maybe you know, get a little sun and cover up those dark circles under your eyes, we'll go back to normal." He chuckled.

"I want you to act like you just did more of the time. It a about time you started acting normal," he chirped, taking the spoon from his tray and picking at the Jell-O a little. "This has gotta be the worst tasting crap on the entire planet."

"Do you want me to bring us in food from someplace else?" He shook his head, and pushed the tray away from himself again.

"I can't eat this garbage."

"I'll send somebody out tomorrow to bring us something nice. Maybe some Chinese takeout, hmm? How does that sound?"

"I'd rather eat _that _in a room that doesn't reek of ammonia, and when I'm not using every ounce of strength in my body to not throw up," he explained, rubbing his eyes. "Actually I'd rather eat anything in that room."

"What if I send Cameron to the grocery store, stick you in a wheelchair, and make us macadamia nut pancakes in the lounge," I suggested, at this point willing to fly him to Paris or Antarctica if it meant he'd eat something.

"I forgot, is the lounge still technically a part of the hospital or has it moved and is now in a different building somewhere else in the world?"

"We both know that there's a huge difference between the smell of the patients room and the lounge, or the morgue or your office. Just let me try it, once. Come on, please?" I was begging, there's no doubt about it, but I was desperate.

He rolled his eyes again, and refused to discuss it anymore, except to say, "you can _try _whatever you like, doesn't mean it's gonna have any real effect on me or us, or anything. Me, I honestly couldn't care less." That was pretty much House's way of saying pretty please with a cherry on top, except, he could never say that, so he'd shrug, or insult me, or claim not to give a crap, but by this point in our relationship, I'd gotten pretty good at figuring out when he really didn't care, and when he actually wanted and or needed something. The next morning I made pancakes, and we hung in the lounge for a while, which did help…sort of.

The next couple of days I did what I could to help him find things to eat, help him keep it down, and tried to make the guy comfortable. Greg was his usual, cranky self, complaining about everything, except for when he asked me to borrow a videogame cart from pediatrics. Apparently he forgot to bring the charger for his handheld and as a result could no longer use the thing. I did it, of course. Within less than an hour, a bald kid with bright blue eyes and fire truck pajamas, who was lugging an IV poll behind him, found his way into our room.

"How long do you think you're gonna be using that," the little boy asked, sadly. Greg shrugged. "There are two controllers. Would it be okay if I play with you?"

"What's wrong with you," he asked the kid, and I almost—mind you almost—smacked him. _You can't just say something like that to a child in the hospital. It's bad enough that you basically made me steal this thing, don't get into more trouble._

"I have Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia," the kid told him, with a small lisp. House sighed; sucking in his bottom lip, then shrugged. "I promise I won't beat you. I'm not very good at this game."

"What's your name," he said at last, handing over a controller. "I'm Greg," he added, changing to two-player mode. "And uh we're not supposed to fight each other, but—I think—work together." The boy nodded, taking a seat in the chair beside his bed.

"My name is Zack," the kid said, squirming in his seat a little.

"Are you alright," Greg asked, and actually managed to sound like he gave a crap. The boy shrugged and then winced. "Does that hurt?" The kid looked away embarrassed. "I'm a doctor, and so is—he," House said, pointing his chin towards me. "If you want, either one of us can look at it." No response. "Don't you think your parents are gonna be a little worried if you're not in your room?" The boy shrugged again, a much smaller gesture this time.

"They're not here. My little sister has Strep throat, so they hafta get tested to make sure they're not contagious," Zack explained.

"So they just left all alone? You don't have like a grandmother or something," he murmured. On the TV screen his character double jumped onto a hidden ledge and picked up a red square. Greg had been playing Lego Star Wars ever since he got sick, and was getting to be really good at it.

"They can't stay here overnight and my mom and dad both work; so most days they just come for dinner and tuck me when visiting hours are over." Zack then added, "That was awesome. I never know where the red bricks are."

House smiled quickly, and watched the boy for a while. "You never really answered my first question, about the central line. If it's sore, that could be a sign that something else is wrong. You could have a—an infection."

"I know; it always hurts. Dr. Kaufman checks it twice a week." Some time passed. They finished the level. "What kind of doctors are you guys?" the game continued, and Greg twisted, moving his controller to avoid falling off the edge of what looked like a cliff.

"I have two specialties. Infectious Disease and Nephrology—that's the kidneys, and Dr. Wilson over there's an Oncologist." The kid had met me before, because he I'd diagnosed him before House got sick, but I wasn't sure if he remembered me. "Look, uh—this game is better with two people, and Jimmy is terrible. So, uh, until your folks come back, or if you ever get bored, I'll probably have a console. You know whatever." Zack looked up at me, slightly confused.

"He's giving you an open invitation to hang out and play videogames anytime you want," I explained. His mouth spread open in a large grin, and the two played for nearly two hours before a nurse came looking for Zack.

"I gotta go to bed now, but I'll see you tomorrow, maybe," he said, walking over to House, and holding his arm out. Greg stared awkwardly for a moment, as if confused. Then he paused the game and shook hands. I waited until I was completely sure the boy was gone before saying anything.

"That was really nice of you," I told him. He just shrugged. "But you probably already knew that. Well, tomorrow's gonna be a busy day for you." This got his attention. "Your mom's coming for a visit," I reminded him. He threw the controller down on the bed.

"I told you, I don't want her to see me like this! Not in the hospital. Why didn't you tell me about this sooner?" Of course I had told him, several times, but he obviously hadn't been listening at the time. "I'm like...I don't—please? Not here; not like this. I'll do _all _your clinic hours for all eternity, if you just call her and say I have an infection or something, so she can't come," he pleaded.

"Yeah…I'm sorry, but I can't do that. Look, we can put make up on under your eyes and to cover up how pale you are, trade the gown for sweats, put you in that chair over there, instead of the hospital bed, and pump you full of meds, buff your numbers a little." He made this sort of growling sound. "She knows you have cancer. She saw you at the funeral. She held you, and sat with you. Plus, I can't lie to her, and neither can you. So, we can't tell her you're too sick for her to come in. Not that it matters, this has nothing to do with her. You just wanna be healthy again," I whispered, gently, kissing his head. He rolled his eyes yet again. "At least you still have your hair."

"It's not going to fall out. Never. I'm 45, and I've still got more than half. When I'm 50, when I'm 60, when I'm 80, still gonna have it. And not that bald on top but a tiny amount of way too long hair on the sides look, but real hair." I smiled, still kissing him. "You're wrong by the way. I really don't want her to see me like this. You're gonna hafta work really hard to make me look good," he instructed. I nodded. "But not too good, 'cuz then she might get the wrong idea, think I'm all better." I nodded, patting his stomach a little. "How long are you gonna keep doing this?"

"Do what?" I had a feeling I knew what this was about. I always try to give Greg what he wants—within reason—but ever since he got sick, I'd been ridiculously nice, forgiving, and helpful. I bought pot for crying out loud! "'Til you get better," I explained. House gave me another dirty look. "What? I should start yelling at you, molest and mock and hit you? Force you to eat crappy hospital food, and sleep alone, on the floor?"

"No, no, yes, no—well maybe sort of yes, and no. Just act like I'm normal. Nothing's changed except that I'm in more pain, I 'm tired, and I barf all the time. Other than that, though, I'm pretty much the same guy I always was. I don't wanna be treated like some poor, pathetic, dying kid. I'm not little Zackie," he explained. I smiled. _Except, you are a poor, pathetic—sick, and possibly dying kid. I can't yell at a caner patient. I'm just not that kind of person. _

"I'll try to do better, but…no promises, Greg. I can only do so much for you, Pal. You're sick. You've lost at least 30 pounds. You don't sleep. Your skin is all sallow, and patchy, and pale. You're in pain, and like you said, throwing up all the time. I love you, and I'm watching you waste away. I don't wanna lose you, and have to deal with the fact that I spent the last week of your life treating you like crap."

"But you don't care if you lose me," he snorted. Now I rolled my eyes. He smiled. He liked that I was getting annoyed with him. "I want things to be normal. I want to you to make jokes, tease me, laugh with me, and at me sometimes—like we always do. You're the only one who treated me in a way that wasn't completely boring. I want that back."

"You got it, butt face." I hated myself. He grinned, and pressed his head against my shoulder tiredly. "I'll work on that, okay?" He nodded. "But I still love you," I whispered.

"Aww, shut up. I've had just about enough of that nonsense. You don't hafta keep on saying that. Hell, you never hafta say it again. Just spending time with me is a lot." I'd heard Greg say the exact same thing once or twice, but it still bothered me. I have always hated the way he thinks about and treats himself, but I'm pretty much powerless to stop it. John House had convinced his little boy that he was completely useless, unworthy of love, and (unfortunately) _that _was one of the few things he'd continued to believe, even to this day.

"I don't pretend to be smart enough to understand much—if any—of the things you say. You're much, much, much smarter than me; I'll concede to that." I paused, to think about exactly what I was going to say next, and House used the time to throw his two cents into the mix

"I'm laying here, hooked up to a poison pump, pale, thin as an anorexic, puking my guys out, and in _pain _and you're gonna give me a lecture?"

"You're the one who told me to treat you like I usually would, and I usually lecture you. Now, this—most of the time you're right about stuff. You are annoying, sarcastic, often cold, and occasionally cruel, but you're also smart, funny, exciting and lots of fun to be around—and no, I'm not just saying that to make you feel better. At work you're a completely different person than you are at home. You're cocky, arrogant, and so sure of yourself. As a doctor, you know exactly what to do, what's gong on, even what to say—sort of—but when it comes to personal relationships, with me, with your team, strangers, girls, guys...you don't know. I'm willing to believe that you hate virtually everyone, especially the stupid and annoying people, but I think you're afraid too get close, even to me, because people are never nice, unless there's a reason behind it. And anyone who's nice to you, well they must either think you're pathetic, or they want something. I don't know if you think you don't deserve love, of friends, or my affection, or if you're afraid that I'm going to turn out to be like your dad, and that I'm gonna hurt you in some unimaginable way, or if it's something else, but I _do _love you, and I'm gong to keep saying it. For two reasons, one because you really don't believe me, and two, because people need love, and human contact to—well technically you could _live _without ever getting any, but you wouldn't do well." He sighed, tuning away from me, closing his eyes, yawning, and opening them again. "Go to sleep," I whispered. "Please. She won't be here until early evening, late afternoon. We'll get you looking stronger, better. She knows you're sick, but no one should ever have to see someone they love like this."

"What about you," he asked, still yawning. I started massaging the back of his neck and shoulders. "Don't you love me? And if so, how can you keep on looking at me like this?" I touched his hair.

"Believe me, if I could treat you, and hold you and love you, and take care of you and everything else, without ever having to see you like this, I'd do it, but I can't. That's okay. I know you don't believe me right now, but you are gonna get better. I won't let you die. I wouldn't put you through all of this for nothing, okay?" He shrugged, closed his eyes, sort of, curled up beside me, and shrugged. "I love you, Greg." He nodded once, muttering something to himself, before falling asleep.


End file.
